


The Heart of Ciara

by S_EER (Fritiriel)



Series: The Heart of Ciara [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Art, Blackmail, Bridal Pledge, Cover Art, Crossdressing, Disguise, Duelling, Espionage, Extreme Foppery, Heyeroica, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Inspiration: As You Like It, Inspiration: From Eroica with Love, Inspiration: Georgette Heyer, Inspiration: The Scarlet Pimpernel, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, NSFW Art, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage Sex, Regency Romance, Utterly AU, Vile Villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/S_EER
Summary: His lordship is rich, bored and allowing himself to be persuaded to a marriage of convenience, since the love of his life seems unwilling to put in an appearance and he is, after all, nearing thirty. Only rarely does his path cross that of the baronet, a social butterfly with appalling dress sense; when it does, his lordship's contempt is whole-hearted—and fascinated. But Sir Elijah is both less and far more than he seems—and an unexpected encounter between the two men sets in train events which will change their lives forever…
  * * * 
Wonderfully illustrated throughout by Notabluemaia, Beloved Beta and Artist, and  Hildigard_Brown, Manip-maker Extraordinaire (and even, occasionally, by me). A thousand thanks once again to both for their time, artistry and love for this story!The Heart of Ciara is complete in 202,500 words and will post weekly. It is technically more Georgian than Regency, the latter being more a genre, in the context of fiction, than historical fact.





	1. Prologue

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Tiriel/media/HoC%20final%20cover_zpsgkv7nq90.jpg.html)

PROLOGUE

_In which Dark Deeds are Afoot…_

London had admitted at last to the sovereignty of night and was mostly sleeping, even the earliest of her markets silent as yet. The frenetic late-night pleasures of The Season were over for the year, though one or two of the Clubs along Pall Mall or in St James were still in sluggish operation. Those members of the _ton_ who remained in Town despite the heat of high summer had long ago repaired for the night to the mansions and townhouses fringing agreeably tree-furnished squares, or lining wide and pleasant streets.

Even in the less fortunate districts—where dwellings were small and cramped, the streets narrow and dirty, and taverns dispensed the cheap oblivion of blue ruin half the night—the inhabitants were almost all abed already. 

In the ordinary, modestly respectable parts of town lay many an ordinary, respectable street, wherein lived the majority of London’s industrious citizens. The doors to the public houses at their corners had been barred and shuttered for some hours, the patrons dispersed to their various snug homes to take an honest rest. An occasional feline slink—from one likely hunting run to another—seemed the only movement now.

The house possessed no feature to mark it out from its fellows. Like them, its door was solid and well kept, if verging toward the slightly shabby, its brass knocker just as polished as any. Understandably perhaps, at this late hour, no light spilled through the transom above nor from any of the windows—each one a covered blank, and heavily barred as if the owner may fear the incursion of thieves. 

Darkness and silence were broken at length as a figure approached this most conventional of dwellings. With little more than the suggestion of a lurch—it would after all take vast quantities of liquor to incapacitate such a giant of a man—he made his way carelessly to the door as if it might be his own. On arrival, he did not produce a key as a householder might, instead leaning negligently and turning to observe the empty street behind him; ashamed, conceivably, should a neighbour peep from behind prim curtains to observe the unhappy result of a night’s distant carousing. When assured of privacy at last he reached into one pocket of his greatcoat.

Then shadow swirled behind him and as if from nowhere a second figure advanced, dark-cloaked and hooded—slight enough, when set beside the immense bulk of the other. Given the element of surprise, however, with the probable inebriation of the victim and a weapon at the ready, an attack with robbery in mind might indeed have proved successful.

But the large man was aware of the presence, it seemed, for he nodded before donning, briskly and quite soberly, a broad black mask to conceal his features as effectively as those of the newcomer were already hidden. He stood back, then, for his companion to raise a hand—startlingly pale amid so much darkness and shadow—and tap ceremoniously twice upon the sun-faded paint.

The door swung open immediately without a sound, though neither light nor servant appeared to welcome the visitors. One of the two spoke a single word into the waiting dark, the voice young and low and pleasant. They stepped within and the door was closed against the night; a click of locks—loud in such silence—indicating an attendant nonetheless. For several moments the blackness was absolute. Then a further door opened in the passage beyond, and the light of many candles spilled out to welcome them.

The room was close despite its size, the air being filled with pipe-smoke and candle-reek; containing little else by way of furniture, it was dominated by a large and handsome table, rectangular in shape and graced just now with a generous array of bottles and glasses. 

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, a meeting of some sort was obviously underway, presided over by a portly gentleman whose delight in the pleasures of the table had perhaps overcome his discretion. At either hand sat other figures—a prosperous and varied company, six in all, amongst them one broad and extravagantly dressed woman who seemed determined to prove quite conclusively that a sufficiency of money would never quite compensate for the lack of taste. In only one respect did any of the six resemble their host: as with the visitors now standing at the table’s foot, the upper part of each face was neatly and effectively concealed behind a plain black mask.

‘Welcome, once again,’ said the portly man.

The smaller of the visitors inclined its head, and stepped up to the table. The position of the large man, now a respectful step or two to the rear, made clear at last his role as servant and bodyguard.

Seemingly from nowhere a small square box appeared and was set skimming easily along the table’s polished surface into the hands of the portly man. All eyes were upon him as he flicked open the clasp to reveal its contents.

He paused, disconcerted, as first a straw-coloured card emerged into view. Elegantly inscribed and gaily decorated with small motifs of a vivid scarlet, it failed unhappily of its message, since the reader had no written language other than English. He set it aside to gain full access.

‘As requested?’ the guest enquired then, sounding almost bored. 

The answer came swiftly enough as the portly man held up the open jewel case. The glow of candlelight reflecting on the faces round the table was stained suddenly blood-red by what lay within. There were several sharp breaths, appreciatively indrawn, and one low whistle. 

He slid the box to his right hand neighbour, a dry and stringy individual, for close inspection. Thin fingers scuttled forward possessively to pry the ruby carefully from its darkly velvet bed whilst the other hand produced a jeweller’s loupe and affixed it firmly at his eye. The examination may be for flaw or deception, but the scrutiny was long and loving, the fingers caressing as he gently turned it, revelling in the rich, warm glint that lurked deep within each separate facet. Eventually, at the sound of a clearing throat, he looked up and seemed to remember the task at hand. He gave a sharp nod and reluctantly returned the treasure.

‘Well, well—and not even reported missing as yet,’ said the portly man, almost jovial now. ‘A task _very_ neatly accomplished, may I say?’

Again the head inclined, its owner obviously considering the remark gratuitous and therefore unworthy of reply.

Serious once more, the chairman replaced the priceless jewel in its box and formally addressed his seated fellows. 

‘The Candidate here before us has requested admission to our Fellowship, and has fulfilled the requirement of entry with honours. Our dues are well paid, in stealth and in full. The Higher Passwords were already known.’ He frowned a little at that, unused to transfers from beyond the boundaries where the writ of their own council ran; these being infrequent during his term of office. 

‘How say you, my Brothers?’

Madam bridled a little at that, though her pique seemed as much a part of tradition as the rising of each and the solemn pronouncement of ‘Aye!’ before the chime of their glasses. The chairman toasted his approval last of all to seal irrevocable acceptance.

Candidate no longer, the slender black-clad figure bowed acknowledgement, accepting an offer of wine in turn; as one now—for good or for ill, but forever—with the Brotherhood of Thieves of London Town. 

Over the coming months, many a wealthy household would find itself the poorer for the attentions of this particular Brother. A name became legend amongst them, for their visitor was most scrupulous in every particular, and thanks were always rendered for predations discovered in their wake; theft, after all, being one thing, a failure of politeness quite another.

  
[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Butterfly-thanks.jpg)   


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	2. In which the Reader is Introduced to Our Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Lacedbanner.jpg)   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Being Principally the Adventures of my Lord Astin;  
> to Encompass his Mode of Existence and Familial Connections,  
> his Romantic Expectations and the Unexpected Fulfilment thereof;  
> also their Sudden Destruction and the Issuing of a Challenge

CHAPTER THE SECOND  
_In which the Reader is Introduced to Our Heroes_

Sean Patrick, Eighth Earl Astin of Carraghlin and Sixth of Astinley, paused just inside the double doors to the ballroom; so late an arrival at least ensured that he need not be formally announced to the busily chattering assembly before him. The very cream of Society was present—and making rather more noise than a barrowload of monkeys. He had noticed before how raucous the well-bred could be _en masse_ ; on the heels of a peaceful sojourn in Ireland he found the racket they were making almost painful to his ears. 

In truth, he would as soon have settled by his own hearth this night, drowsing in delicious warmth in a chair which neither jounced nor heaved constantly beneath him, and with the luxury of dry clothes once again. He suspected that he must indeed be growing old when such enticements could hold a greater allure than one of the most prestigious social occasions of the Season. 

He would not have come here at all this evening, were it not for a brief but importunate note delivered post haste almost before he had stepped over his own doorsill. Elizabeth’s fine copperplate bore signs of considerable agitation as she urged attendance upon him, making free use of the underscore. He might well regret it, she said, should he fail to attend— _regret_ underscored with even greater vigour than the rest. 

Curiosity had brought him; that and the knowledge that he would not readily hear the last of it if he stayed away.

He discovered his hostess and presented apologies for his tardiness. The daughter of the house was summoned at once, of course, to greet him although, as he had hoped, Miss Julia—whose coming out ball this was—had not a single space left upon her dance card. Wishing her every enjoyment of her special evening, Sean said all that was proper. When he extricated himself politely from the encounter, citing a need to communicate messages to his sister, he was conscious, as ever, of the disappointment of a match-making mama. It was another aspect of Society with power to discompose him.

But the Lady Elizabeth Selkirk was now clearly visible on the far side of the room, sitting amongst the matrons and seemingly perfectly content; quite dispossessed, in fact, of any internal turmoil beyond, Sean suspected, possibly wondering whether—and if so, by how much—the present occasion may outshine her own daughter’s ball, given not two weeks previously. She did not appear _instantly_ to require his presence, and until such time as she should Sean took advantage of a large and primly draped statue to escape a little the steady flow of social niceties to which he really did not feel equal this night.

A slow and ill-starred journey from Ireland, in completely unpropitious weather, had encompassed toward its end a detour to Oxford, in answer to a _cri de coeur_ from Bella’s eldest. This—most fortunately for young Tom if not for Sean—had arrived on the very day his lordship took leave of his ancestral home and of Mama. The boy had simply kicked up one lark too many, of course, and found himself in a vat of trouble about which he would much rather his papa should never hear (and _particularly_ not mama). Uncle Sean was the obvious rescuer, having so much _savoir faire_ (and a long purse besides, upon which reliance might always be placed). 

But, as it had been for a succession of nephews—unbeknownst to Tom—that reliance was here _mis_ placed. Sean dealt with a firm hand, in the shape of conditions attached to the rescue which were not at all to Master Thomas’s liking. A guinea beneath the seal during his schooldays was one thing; encouraging a boy to amass debts under the misapprehension that Uncle Sean would always bail him out was quite another. It was a much chastened as well as a relieved nephew who had taken leave of his uncle a few short hours ago. 

Sean ducked a little further behind his marble companion then, as Lady Dormer—whose tongue, said Mama, ran upon a fiddlestick—passed into the ballroom shepherding her daughter before her. Emerging cautiously, he gazed around—intent more upon self preservation than anything. There were few amongst the gathering he did not recognise, and fewer still with whom he felt any great urge to converse at any length. In a very little time however, and seemingly of their own accord, his eyes fixed upon a most distinctive figure—well-remembered, yet newly-striking after such long absence. Sean’s most critical faculties at once came into play.

 _Blue_ , thought his lordship with some distaste. Why in heaven’s name would anyone _want_ blue hair? Or even—since one should respect accuracy—a wig thus thickly blue-powdered?

And if the colour alone were not offence sufficient, flounce followed puff in excessive array—rolls and sausages of curl, row by tightly-spiralled row. To the abandonment of all reason they rose many inches high above the forehead, trailing low to back and side. 

Sean had listened to Mama's reminiscences on the truly monumental head wear of her own heyday—when she and the late Earl had themselves adorned the _ton_ bearing upon their heads, she would admit with a rueful laugh, structures too fantastical now to be believed. It had been the mode, she said, explaining all. 

He shuddered, thankful in a small way that, by comparison with such tales, the present example could have been, yet was not, worse. Good reason, he considered, that wigs were losing—had almost lost, except in certain rarefied quarters—their hold upon fashion. The younger set had for some years preferred hair—and features—to be worn _au naturel_.

And _this_ wig—though worn indeed by one who should have been a member of that younger set—was rendered the more grotesque by the face beneath, which vied for attention by sheer force of contrast in flat white, thickly pasted. Small wonder that the man rarely showed expression beyond total boredom; the effort required to laugh or smile or even frown would surely harrow cracks along the careful neutrality of his façade.

Admittedly, not all was white. Gradations of colour were rouged over the cheeks and if there was not any on the lips, Sean was a damned Frenchy; he needed no artfully affixed patch to bring it to _his_ attention. And whatever could be the point of blotting out the eyebrows to replace them with thin, sharp lines that angled high in permanent surprise? The pursuit of fashion to its extremes—particularly one now well beyond the height of its vogue, except amongst such members of the fop fraternity—was in Sean’s eyes so incomprehensible as to defeat all attempt at logical explanation.

The coat fared little better beneath his scrutiny. A brocade of silvered blue, it was daringly, copiously and above all quite ludicrously decorated with _tresses d’argent_ , in emulation of military frogging; incongruous at the best of times, but within an ensemble such as this, almost grotesque. Its cut— Sean was conscious of a sudden impediment to the stringent flow of his criticism. 

Possibly due to the fact that he was actually looking quite _beyond_ the man—bestowing upon him, in fact, little above the merest glance in passing—he had registered and must perforce acknowledge the quiet excellence of the underlying cut. A pity and a waste, he thought, that a tailor's valiant effort to salve his pride should be lost so completely to an extravagance of ornamentation and an obstinate profusion of detail. 

He was distracted, then, by the waistcoat, which had—no, which _was_ —a statement of its own. He attempted to draw, and indeed almost succeeded in drawing, a discreet and highly necessary veil.

It became necessary to shift position slightly. A pair of chattering fribbles had migrated across the ballroom and paused precisely, if unintentionally, where best they might impede his view. Their garments sought eagerly—though they failed even more inadvisedly—to emulate the heights of modishness returned now to Sean’s sight. 

Such of the breeches as was visible below the generosity of upper garments was admissible in any polite gathering; their termination at the knee was, alas, marked by a pair of the most blatant, most flamboyantly scarlet rosettes his lordship had ever the misfortune to behold. He would admit their suitability, by colour if upon no other excuse, to accompany the stockings below, embroidered as these were, not with clocks—which even his lordship knew to be utterly _passé_ —but with a bevy of similarly-hued butterflies in varying sizes and full flight. He had heard rumours of festoons of squirrels employed thus; on balance he held the butterflies to be marginally preferable. 

Red heels to the shoes were, of course, _de rigueur_ , though Sean could not help but feel that multiple opportunities for further embellishment had here been missed; for their buckles were comparatively restrained in size (if remarkably shiny), the leather was a neat and unrelieved black. If asked, he might even have wagered a small sum upon the fact that they were actually quite comfortable to wear. It seemed that the man may have human foibles after all.

The neck-cloth, however… The neck-cloth pandered to fashion once again, requiring its wearer to hold his chin somewhat elevated; so that his eyes must remain half-lidded against the light of many, many candles. 

The only truth to be seen, amidst all this artifice, _was_ blue, thought Sean. The blue of those eyes—startling and undeniably beautiful in themselves—when in an unguarded moment they flew wide and met his own by some odd chance. And in the seconds before he averted his gaze, in some embarrassment at being discovered staring thus, Sean was conscious that their pure gleam put to shame the faded, dusty hue of the risible edifice above.

~~~~\~~~/~~~~

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/seerslair/media/Sir%20Elijah%20Wood.jpg.html)  


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	3. In which His Lordship Reflects Further...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the THIRD
> 
> _In which His Lordship Reflects Further:_  
>  _Upon a Fate Which May Shortly Overtake him;_  
>  _Upon the Circumstances which Brought him to this Pass;_  
>  _And Even Further Upon a Certain Baronet and his_  
>  _Mastery of Matters Terpsichorean_  
> 

With a swift nod for politeness Sean looked hastily aside, unaccountably discomposed at being discovered thus, pondering the personal vagaries of Sir Elijah Wood. He offered a smile of greeting instead to the dark young lady who had risen from her seat to accept the hand of that vision of foppishness in the set just forming. But the smile Hestia afforded Sean in return was tight—almost anxious—and she quickly looked away, responding to some remark, it seemed, upon the nature of the dance, illustrated with considerable exuberance in a delicate flutter of hands. 

He frowned, wondering what could have occurred to discompose a temperament normally so equable. Her partner-to-be was clearly not the cause of her anxiety, for her smile for his enthusiasm was once again perfectly assured. 

With them was the baronet’s sister, a very pretty blonde amid the small court of young men eagerly awaiting their turn upon her dance card. Chaperone to both damsels, it seemed, was a plain lady of a certain age—Miss Cosgrove, Sean remembered from several casual meetings of the previous autumn. She was, as ever, fashionably dressed, yet with the lace cap that proclaimed her—quite proudly—to be an old maid. She smiled benignly now, permitting Miss Hannah into the charge of Sean’s friend Will. 

The look upon Will’s face said he was more than happy with the arrangement, giving Sean pause to speculate whether he might be developing a genuine _tendre_ , at last. For some time after his come-out Will had been regrettably prone to violent infatuations with completely unsuitable females; it had been the part of a true friend, then, to rescue him from lasting consequences. Of late years, his flirts had grown almost as circumspect as Sean’s own, but this looked far less like dalliance than fixing his interest, and Miss Hannah too seemed not unaffected.

His lordship had long considered it distinctly unfair that William Henry George St John Devereux, Viscount Royde, in much the same case as himself—nearing thirty, unmarried and in need of an heir though without a damsel in mind to fulfil the vacant position of wife and (in due time, in Will’s case, since the Earl his father as yet enjoyed the rudest of health) of Countess—that Will should be left to his own devices in the matter, being utterly devoid of sisters to carp him into wedlock. 

What Will possessed in abundance, of course, and Sean completely lacked, was the luxury of brothers who might succeed to the Earldom should necessity compel. His mother could afford to let the matter rest as yet, secure in the knowledge of having amply provided for every eventuality. The _unfairness_ was further underlined by the fact that Sean’s eldest sister—possessed of an entire _brood_ of sons from amongst whom a successor would in time be appointed, given so unhappy a turn of events in relation to the Astin inheritance—that even _Elizabeth_ was pushing at him to name both damsel and day.

And the damsel, he reflected gloomily, seemed ever more likely with each passing year to be Hestia Polkinghorne. Acquiescence to his sisters’ wishes had betrayed him; he had been inveigled into squiring Miss Hestia far more frequently than his own inclination would have advised. It had become almost a settled thing before ever he had taken thought against it. Sean was uncomfortably aware that there would be those amongst the _ton_ who would consider him to have trifled despicably with her expectations if not her affections were he, at this late date, to choose another as his bride. This despite the fact that he had never yet addressed to her one single word or action which could even be considered so to raise such hopes. 

He had wondered if she might accept his suit as much to escape from the infelicitous harmonies of her maiden name as for his title and fortune. Which was scarcely the sentiment of a lover, but then, his standing with regard to Hestia was anything _but_ amatory. An engagement, and soon enough a marriage, to her would be a practical arrangement only. She was in need of a husband, he of a wife, as he was constantly reminded by his sisters, both severally and together. They, being all save one older, were presumably far wiser than he—and yet something within him balked at the thought.

Hestia was of unexceptionable birth, completely amenable, rather pretty in a slow, dark way—indeed perfectly conversable, provided that conversation did not stray far beyond fashion, family and _ton_. If there was a fault to her person, it was perhaps that she was a little on the tall side for his taste. He suspected that the need to tilt his head to address her may indeed become irritating in time. He suppressed a wry smile at the recollection of Diana’s summation of Hestia as a bride for him. His youngest sister had not minced the words he suspected were originally acquired from a garrulous (and, naturally, Irish) servant.

‘They’re wanting to leg-shackle you to a beanpole with the eyes and all the breeding talent of a Kerry cow—and with about as much wit between her ears!’

He could not quite remember when Hestia had become the bride elect in his _other_ sisters’ eyes, and was still entirely ignorant as to why. She was perfectly suitable, yet no more so than several others. And, though it would be the act of a coxcomb to admit to such a thing aloud, Sean could not help but know that there were many and many young females (eligible or not) who would accept from him an offer of marriage (and some of an estate far less honourable) with an alacrity which might shame a Billingsgate fishwife. The problem was that Sean had no mind to a marriage of convenience. 

His sisters—with the exception of Diana, of course—had been content to make such marriages; remaining so, from what Sean could see, after many years (and, it almost seemed, even more children). Diana, on the other hand, had made her own choice—and not even a baronet for the daughter of an earl! She had run away from home in order to be with him (much to that good man’s surprise, when she arrived in the dead of night at the door of his modest parsonage); and had caused both Sean and her beloved a deal of trouble in the suppression of a scandal-broth. 

But Diana had been, was, and for all Sean could tell, would always be radiantly happy with her nobody, whom Sean had found to be an extremely intelligent man, well able to control his wife’s exuberance and rise to her wit. The surprise had been how admirably the Lady Diana Patrick had risen to the challenge of becoming a parson’s wife. 

Her example—and even better, that of his parents—was the one he wished to emulate. Since he was old enough to enter Society, Sean had been presented to each emerging maiden at her coming out ball. Unfortunately, he had found none for whom he felt the sudden ‘leap of my heart’ that Diana had tried to describe to him. With thirty closing fast upon him, he rather suspected such an emotion was never to be his. 

In addition to keen encouragement from the cream of each year’s _debutantes_ —and most particularly from their mamas—he had enjoyed not a few discreet and mutually enjoyable liaisons with the sort of young persons who would never be eligible for vouchers to Almack’s, or invited to even the least modish of _ton_ parties. He maintained, in fact, a long-standing connection for whom he had provided a neat house in the bluestocking district of Bloomsbury—whither he repaired, periodically, for the fulfilment of many of the accommodations of a wife. 

Were he to shilly-shally along in this fashion for a further few years, it could do naught but harm to Hestia. It was not her fault that he had no real mind to marriage, whether to her or to any other female of his acquaintance. No, the time was surely coming when he must do the honourable thing; when he must bring his courage to the sticking place and request her hand in the approved fashion. 

His preference for a quiet and uncomplicated life, whilst he awaited the appearance of the damsel of his dreams, must give way at last to reality; to the importunities of a family who truly believed that what he needed was the support and comfort of a bride, with the security of an heir to follow in due course. No matter that he considered himself more than adequately supported, in some considerable comfort, by a small but efficient staff, his other needs discreetly attended to by Mrs Moreton—of whose existence, he had no doubt that his sisters were fully, if mercifully silently, aware. 

His lordship sighed, watching the dancers bow or curtsy to their respective partners as they awaited the opening strains of a measured _contredanse_. Hands met and clasped, lightly; the allegorical nature of the movement was not lost upon him—except that his too-soon-to-be-fiancée was here handfast with a man who looked as if the mere threat of a wife should surely send him post-haste back to the Continent, where he had already spent the major portion of his life to the present.

That Sir Elijah Wood was something of a favourite amongst the ladies was undeniable, if unfathomable to Sean. It appeared that even so peculiarly flamboyant a façade was easily enough discounted when allied both to amiable conversation and to apparently inexhaustible wealth. And, almost incredible as it may seem, he was blessed, according to Elizabeth, with quite extraordinarily exquisite taste—in any and all matters other than those appertaining to his own person. 

He possessed, or so she claimed, the infallible—and supremely tactful—ability to advise any lady requesting such guidance of the all-important, infinitesimal distinction between the height of fashion and the awkwardness of having aimed and missed. More than one of the maidens here tonight would owe to him the _cachet_ that raised her attire above the commonplace, Elizabeth’s youngest daughter not least amongst them.

Sean’s eldest sister would have admitted, if put to it, that little Lavinia was rather plain and distinctly mousey, as much by nature as by colouring. She was, in fact, as unlike her own forthright—and still handsome though nearing fifty—dam as it was possible to be. Not that her ladyship would have confessed openly to _quite_ so many years in her dish; but when the last of a generous family was enjoying her come-out, any person so vulgar as to display an interest in such irrelevancies might well employ elementary arithmetic (or fingers) to arrive at a total which may, in a lesser woman, have proved quite dispiriting.

Through Elizabeth’s example as much as her extensively informative letters in his absence, Sean gathered that ladies of _maturer_ years proved equally susceptible to the young baronet’s charm of manner and convenient talent. Not a few of them, it seemed, had come to rely implicitly upon his advice when seeking to transform a drawing room or boudoir whose décor—only now discovered to be perfectly _dismal_ —could apparently be readily relieved under the discerning eye to be found in one who had formerly resided at Paris. 

The young man was something of an enigma. He had appeared in London less than a year ago, sponsored everywhere by his godfather, Sir Anthony Cadell. Although expectation may perhaps have said otherwise, it was not the ladies alone who were inclined to look upon him with favour. Rumour—again delivered through the medium of Elizabeth’s indefatigable pen—said that even gentlemen of a serious disposition, once a natural disinclination to treat with so epicene a creature was overcome, apparently discovered him to speak with surprising sense and acumen upon the current political situation both here and abroad; the latter not unnaturally since he had apparently spent his formative years imbibing the culture of every Continental capital (and very likely, parented as he had been, of many less savoury places between). 

Sean understood that, owing to complete familiarity and perfect accents in their respective languages he found approval also with the Ambassadors from France and from many of the Germanic, Austro-Hungarian and Italian fiefdoms; being on warm terms with those of several other regions also, following his confession that certain deficiencies in the speaking of their various dialects could be ascribed solely to the regrettably short time at his disposal in their so-enchanting climes.

The _ton_ at large had wondered much that Sir Anthony somehow had convinced Lady Stainborough to sponsor Miss Wood into Society alongside her own daughter. The Woods, it transpired, could lay claim to few female relatives, none of them able for so onerous a duty as to attend all the very _best_ parties, the balls, masquerades, recitals, and the myriad other social occasions of which The Season was comprised. 

It was fortunate, Sean mused, that Kitty Stainborough was an unconceited minx with personality enough to defeat her inheritance of the family Nose. She was undoubtedly cast into the shade by Miss Hannah’s soft blonde curls and gentle features, sparked to life by the same blue as lit her brother’s less prepossessing visage (and yet, who knew but even _that_ may be amiable enough, were it ever to be permitted to encounter, in its natural state, the light of either day or candle).

Sean, however, had heard several whispers indicating that Charlie Stainborough had been for some years lucky to outrun the constable. An offer to underwrite the costs of a London Season—with no expense spared, as may clearly be seen from the extensive new raiment of both mother and daughter, and from the variety and extravagance of the entertainments offered at the town house on Curzon Street—such an offer was not to be refused. Besides which, the two girls appeared to have formed a friendship more understandable than the one which had apparently flourished, in Sean’s absence and despite the disparity in age, between the Misses Hannah Wood and Hestia Polkinghorne.

Sean anticipated that the ineptitude of the fop’s attire would be reflected in his dancing, and prepared himself to feel some sympathy for Hestia in her trial. Though there ought surely to be at least some degree of competence, however small? Anyone wishing to cut a figure in Society must needs acquire so desirable an accomplishment, and dance tutors were engaged on behalf of every true aspirant to the _ton_. 

Long before any daughter of the house enjoyed her come-out, Sean himself (also Will and any other visiting friend or cousin) was dragooned into providing male partnership with whom practice might be undertaken. To the vigorous playing of Miss Bouldersby—less severe than a governess should be, perhaps, for she entered into the spirit of the thing perfectly—they had stepped and pranced and whirled. Refusal had never been an option, on pain of the subtle yet always devastating retribution from a bevy of thwarted sisters. Assured that he would one day be grateful, Sean was then still by far too young to appreciate any advantage which may later accrue.

His co-operation was later sought and given once again, with a better grace, when the delights of The Season were actually to be embarked upon by each of them in turn, his limbs being required in the service of successive sisters. They were all well aware of the opportunities that dancing could present to anyone with even the smallest bone of flirtation in her body. No matter her vigilance, the very strictest of chaperones had no control over what may transpire when her charge danced beyond immediate reach.

Mama engaged the celebrated M. Leblanc to set a final polish to their home-learned skills, and from him the girls acquired the measured graces and genteel posings that Monsieur insisted had, with the new and more stately approach to _la danse_ , become _le dernier cri_ and thus essential for any _jeune fille_ with pretensions to proving _un succès fou!_ Here too, Sean’s participation had been demanded. Small wonder then that, following Diana's emergence from the schoolroom, he had foresworn dancing completely unless there were no other option. 

Counting paces and performing by rote the figures learned from a dancing master were one thing, however. Here, suddenly, as the musicians struck up a stately air, was quite another. Sean barely recognised the stiff _fleurets_ , the tricky and often awkward _pas de bourrée_ with which M. Leblanc had been wont to torment his pupils. 

The steps were the same, direction and revolution no different—why then should this ridiculously dressed fop seem to flow upon the music? Every line of his body, from the angle of his fingers to the movement of his feet, disclosed a natural affinity with rhythm that owed naught to any artifice. 

As the ranks of dancers stepped forward, entwined, retreated, only to advance once more, an elegance of soft blues wove a constant thread amid the formal sway of stiff dark coat and delicately flower-hued gown. Smoothly assured, the man wreathed deft _pas de rigaudon_ around successive partners—a leap here, a glide there—time perfect with each rippling cadence in the return _au premier pas_. He was somehow graceful even in the momentary disengagement before the measure should reform itself afresh.

Sean spared a glance aside to Will, whose success in this had always far surpassed his own. He was proof that any competent tutor might impart the basic steps and even some of the newly fashionable flourishes; those mannered touches which, ill-taught, could bring near-ridicule to many a man as he strove to match his partner’s pretty movements—in which respect the Viscount had undoubtedly benefited from expert instruction.

But he watched in something very like fascination as the fop made the dance his own—ridicule here denied by the most ridiculous of men.

~~~~\~~~/~~~~

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/seerslair/media/Sean%20Patrick%20-%20Lord%20Astin%20by%20Hildigard%20Brown.jpg.html)

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	4. In Which May be Found Silent Insinuation...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the FOURTH
> 
> _In which May Be Found Silent Insinuation, Disquieting Conversation,_  
>  _(Initially) Unintentional Eavesdropping,_  
>  _and Unwarranted Aspersion_  
> 

Sean looked around suddenly, a prickle of unease telling him he was watched in his turn. His eyes at once met those of Lord Robert Vernon—a distant cousin whose relationship could never be sufficiently distant for Sean.

Lord Robert was nearer to Elizabeth's age than his own, tall and dark, and most elegantly attired. The smoothly charming manner, however, concealed more than the sardonic wit exercised in the clubs at the expense of such harmless persons as their hostess this evening. She—doubtless possessed of an active if innocent imagination—would probably ascribe his saturnine countenance rather to a hero of romance than to the self-absorbed creature, wholly given to the pursuit of his own disgraceful pleasures, that Sean knew him to be.

Though married and with an heir to his name, he rarely brought Lady Vernon to Town and she certainly had not accompanied him on his extended tour of the Continent, whence he was but recently returned. His long absence had been as near to banishment as made no difference, and only the less knowing members of the _ton_ accepted the tale of travelling for his own amusement. 

Sean was rather surprised to see him here at all, but would admit that excellent birth and Royal Patronage combined were so often sufficient to smooth over the roughest of going. And tonight’s host and hostess could scarcely be numbered amongst the _highest_ of high sticklers, when their middle son was the next best thing to a ne’er-do-well, himself. 

From his station across the room, Lord Robert looked directly at Sean for a moment, ostentatiously swivelled his head to observe the dancing fop, then returned his gaze to Sean’s once again. He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

A politely neutral nod sufficed by way of reply—a brief acknowledgement of the man’s existence, together with a complete rejection of whatever he may be intimating with his damned impertinent looks.. Sean turned away and set his eyes, all unseeing, upon a different set of dancers.

‘Sean! Welcome back, my dear brother!’

He might be free of Vernon's scrutiny, but Elizabeth had found him at last. Sean dutifully kissed the proffered cheek and returned her greeting.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=LadyElizabethresized.jpg)

‘Sean, whom _can_ you have been watching so intently? I could see it from over yonder!’ She waved her fan at the now vacated seat amongst the chaperones. ‘Please tell me that it was not the pretty little blonde, at the end of the line—Warburton’s daughter, Sophia? She dances well enough I daresay, but she is barely out of the schoolroom and has no conversation whatever beyond a giggle. I guarantee that she would bore you within the week. Besides which,’ she added, in the lowered tone which portended a judicious if unflattering observation, ‘the poor girl is possessed of a _powerful_ squint when you come close enough to observe it.’

‘No, no-one!’ Sean said hastily, uncomfortably aware that he spoke a good deal less than half the truth. He could not possibly admit to having spent several minutes—at the very least—musing upon the person and rhythmic abilities of Sir Elijah Wood. ‘I was merely contemplating the progression of the dance.’ 

‘Really? The way you were staring, I should have thought entirely otherwise. Whom, then?’ Elizabeth frowned in concentration, scanning the other participants as each new figure brought further couples to her view. ‘Hestia? Can it be that you _have_ missed her—far more than you had believed possible? Possibly you may even be a little hurt that on your return after so long away, she has not exactly rushed to your side?’ 

‘No!’ Sean’s rejection of Hestia, and of everything in his life for which she stood, was so fast and so heartfelt that he surprised himself.

Elizabeth regarded him with a keen eye, but managed to misinterpret what she found there. ‘I do believe that you may actually be a little jealous, at last!’ she said. ‘And not without cause perhaps, for it is precisely upon that subject that I wished to speak with you. If you do not look to what is yours, brother, you may be about to lose her! Sir Elijah may not bring to a wife everything that she might _wish_ , but one suspects that, duty done and heirs produced, she would be perfectly _comfortable_.’

‘Elizabeth, you cannot really believe—?’

But even as he glanced back at the unlikely pair, the dance drew to its close in a flourish of bows and curtsies. The two couples made a companionable way toward the Supper Room, Miss Hannah chattering gaily to Will, and Hestia smiling unaffectedly at some remark made, with further extensive waving of smooth white hands, by the baronet. 

Sean could accept, as he always had, that Hestia’s height gave her a slow elegance that would indeed grace any position in Society. And, of course, the excesses of that ludicrous wig made their respective heights appear almost of a level, though surely the fop must feel as did Sean himself in the matter of having to look up to her? He _seemed_ attentive enough—certainly sufficient to allow Elizabeth’s belief in an interest in Hestia. Sean, however, would remain of the opinion that this was rather an innate gallantry than any real desire to engage her affections—unless and until events should prove him to be completely in the wrong.

‘There—do you see? That is _precisely_ what I mean!’

‘ _What_ is precisely what you mean, Elizabeth?’ Sean asked, feeling, as he so often did with her, that he had missed somewhat more of a conversation than was advisable.

‘That smile. If that’s not an _interested_ smile, I’ll eat my new hat! And since it arrived from Cerisette’s hands only this very afternoon so that I haven’t even _worn_ it yet—well, if that doesn’t convince you, Sean, I don’t know what will!’  
‘ _Whose_ smile?’

‘Why, Hestia’s, of course. It is my belief that she now considers—and not without reason—that she has waited too long for you already!’ was the tart reply. ‘And certainly she has as animated recently as ever I have seen her…’ The words _in your company_ hovered unspoken in the air.

‘Elizabeth, I have never so much as—’

‘Exactly! Her present position is most _un_ comfortable, Sean. The entire _ton_ is anticipating your marriage to her—and has been these two years past and likely more! Is it to be wondered at that she should decide Sir Elijah may suit her equally well? Whatever his _foibles_ , that young man is perfectly able to maintain a wife in considerable elegance. If nothing else, a marriage would provide Hestia with the standing of a married woman—which is a very different thing, let me tell you, from that of a girl left too long on the shelf!’

‘And what would you recommend?’ Sean asked tonelessly, for he knew the answer all too well.

‘It may not yet be too late. You should take yourself to Audley Street— _tomorrow_ morning, mark you—and request an interview with Polkinghorne. What a ridiculous name that is, to be sure—Hestia will be quite glad to be rid of it! I daresay the wedding may be held before the Season is quite ended, even allowing the time for Mama to travel from Ireland.’

But as Sean had taken leave of their mother, her final words on the matter had been, _You have time and to spare, Sean—your dear papa was four and thirty when we wed. Do not allow your sisters to hurry you against your own wish. Love whomever you will and I will love your choice for your sake._ He rather suspected, though she had never said as much, that Mama approved Hestia in the abstract only, for her own quick wit would become rapidly bored by so exceptionally placid a daughter-in-law. 

Elizabeth’s attention was then mercifully claimed by her own daughter, and his lordship took the opportunity to evade further such unpalatable advice. An unaccountable lassitude overtook him, and he could discover within himself no further taste whatever for the demands of Polite Society tonight. 

Seeking out his hostess, he thanked her mendaciously for a most enjoyable evening, pleading the fatigue of his so-recent journey as excuse for his early departure. When at last he succeeded in escaping solicitous enquiries as to the health of his mother; extensive (and inaccurate) animadversions upon the exigencies of travel to so remote a location; and a general overview of the numerous other social events—naturally somewhat less glittering than the present occasion—from which his person had been so sadly lacking, Sean felt not only to have earned but positively to _require_ a precipitate leave-taking. 

He decided against commandeering a flurried servant to seek hat and cloak and cane for him. This, of course, was why so many men employed a page—to attend to such need when they were abroad. A small gaggle waited, amusing themselves in noisy whispers in the alcove set apart for their use, where each might anticipate his master's call. None of them answered to Sean and yet he felt once again—and this time ignored—the distinct sensation of being watched as he passed by. 

Further along the corridor, voices spilled from behind a partially open door upon the right, echoing clearly enough from tiled floor and painted walls.

‘…little beyond a _mariage de convenance_ , one suspects.’ 

Sean could not help but overhear. The rules of good breeding quite naturally forbade listening with intent to private conversation; this discussion, however, was practically forced upon his ear, will he or nill he —and the subject chimed so nearly with Elizabeth’s strictures that he barely troubled to resist. Indeed, a further and quite impartial opinion may well serve to enlighten his internal debate. He slowed his pace. 

The Dowager’s reply—he recognised the customarily forthright tones with ease —was, for her, positively indulgent.

‘He is a perfectly _charming_ creature after all, despite his…’ a subtle pause, ‘ _…idiosyncrasies_. And in every other respect he is _most_ eligible. One must assume that, before his regrettably early demise, Sir Merivale—’ 

Sean realised with a start of whom she must be speaking, for Sir Merivale Wood had bequeathed his title and worldly goods to his only son. 

‘— _did_ finally manage to retrieve—and, it appears, quite considerably enhance—the family fortune lost to a _penchant_ for gaming, and other pursuits of a considerably less _savoury_ nature,’ she added, darkly. ‘It is surely a blessing that the estate was entailed, or _that_ must have been forfeited forever! His son may have _other_ foibles, but I tell you, my dear, that were I but thir— _twenty_ years younger and in need of a husband, I should certainly not allow such scruples to deter _me_.’

Sean’s passing grin for her compressive accounting faded instantly. He had long ago grown accustomed to knowing himself a prize in the Marriage Mart, and he did his best to disregard it. He found it oddly disconcerting to think that finnicking fop of a baronet should be so, too; quite as disconcerting as thinking of him proposing marriage to Hestia—or actually _marrying_ her. Hestia must wed where she chose, of course—or at least where she was asked. Sean wished her every happiness, but somehow he could not feel quite comfortable with the notion that she may marry Sir Elijah Wood.

‘And yet, my dear, do you think he is actually _capable_ …?’ Her companion left the question delicately unfinished.

‘Well, I doubt that his attentions would be particularly onerous—nor particularly frequent, either!—but one assumes that he would at least _intend_ to secure an heir!’

‘And, indeed, so ancient—and affluent—a baronetcy should not be allowed to languish for the lack of wherewithal…’

‘Which might, after all, be found _else_ where, should a resourceful wife finally despair of his providing!’ her grace concluded—somewhat bluntly perhaps, for the muffled laugh of agreement contained also a mild protest. ‘It is such a _pity_ that his sister is so much older than Geoffrey, for her portion is said to be _exceptionally_ generous.’ 

The Dowager’s eldest grandson remained, as yet, within the confines of the schoolroom; it was a fact undeniable that Miss Hannah would have long been safely wed, possibly with offspring of her own, before the young Duke-presumptive ever need be troubled by consideration of a wife. 

‘But he, himself,’ the other speaker observed with some satisfaction, ‘is of a _perfect_ age for Clara!’ With mention of that name, she at once identified herself as mama to the sadly unattached Miss Beauchamp who had been out for three years already. Her arranged bridegroom had chosen instead to elope with a most _unsuitable_ young person, to the scandalised delight of the _ton_ and the ruination of poor Clara’s marital prospects. 

Sean’s illicit eavesdropping was brought to an abrupt end now, as footsteps sounded suddenly from the further end of the corridor, with new voices echoing cheerfully loud. The door swung to, and Sean moved on to reclaim his belongings and make an escape to the warmth and comfort of a fireside in his own home.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	5. In Which May Be Found Inescapable Obligation…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the FIFTH
> 
> _In which May be Found Inescapable Obligation,_  
>  _an Irreplaceable Symbol,_  
>  _a Number of Unexceptionable Arrangements_  
>  _—and One which is Perhaps Less So_  
> 

The next days kept his lordship more than occupied enough for excuse to set the entire question to one side for the moment. Important matters of business had inevitably arisen in his absence, for his return from Ireland was considerably delayed. Mama had contracted a severely debilitating case of _la grippe_ , and Sean had remained at the Castle until the doctor pronounced his patient to be not only cured, but very likely healthier than he was himself. His gruff and reassuring sympathy had convinced Sean of the seriousness of her case, for the man could be relied upon to give short shrift even to noble malingerers. 

Sean insisted upon staying with her throughout, despite all protest that he would miss Lavinia’s coming out ball; against his better judgment and under threat of sororial ire, he had long ago promised to partner his young niece in at least one dance. Elizabeth was counting, she had told him bluntly, on the unusual sight of Lord Astin actually _dancing_ , to garner attention also for little Lavvy; of whom, mouse that she was, it must be admitted that she would need all the help he could give in order not to end her Season as unremarked as she began it. He was forgiven his truancy, in light of Mama’s illness, but had rightly foreseen that restitution must be made—at a time and in the manner of Elizabeth’s choosing, naturally. 

A suitable occasion arose within a sennight of his return. Amends, she wrote, could be made, at least in part, in the accompaniment of a select party to view the forthcoming Exhibition of Fireworks, at Vauxhall. She warned him, with her usual lavish employment of the underscore, not to believe that he had _entirely_ escaped leading out his niece into at least _one_ dance—though she was inclined to consider that _two_ may now be owed—on _separate_ occasions, of course. 

He should look upon this merely as a _postponement_ until she could decide upon _another_ venue, equally _conspicuous_. Indeed, she was inclined also to believe that an alternate setting might answer the case _even more satisfactorily_. At her own ball, _politeness alone_ may have compelled his lordship to dance with his niece. The _solicitation_ of her company in a completely _different_ situation, may well lead (and here, a distinct wistfulness to the words was betrayed in a notable lack of emphasis) interested observers to conclude that Lavinia had sufficient personality to warrant the invitation. 

Sean was conscious of a sense of reprieve when the missive was concluded with a discursively regretful postscript, informing him that dear Hestia would unfortunately be unavailable for the treat, her grandmama having come unexpectedly to Town.

His relief was the greater for knowing that he could with reason further postpone any need for the jewel which, by coincidence, had been only that morning safely returned to his possession. It was delivered into his hands by Mr West and Mr Snelsden, trusted representatives of Rundell and Bridge, to whose experienced craftsmen this treasure was periodically entrusted for cleaning, and on this occasion for safekeeping in his lordship’s absence, as well as a trifle of strengthening to the clasp.

Sean repaired to the library with the package, and retrieved from its place upon a distant shelf a book of sermons so dull that it looked never to have been read even by his paternal grandmother, whom he knew by repute to have taken up religion to an immoderate degree when her glory days were done. With a great deal of paste and even more of patience, he had contrived to fix together all of the pages into two separate blocks, hollowing from the centre a space generous enough to accommodate the impressive, many-warded key bestowed upon him by Mr Joseph Bramah.

Mr Bramah had himself overseen installation of the wall safe, his broad Yorkshire accent something of a challenge to his lordship’s ears, yet a far greater offence to those of his butler, it seemed. Hume had refused any attempt at conversation, and indeed employed one of the footmen—Mossop, who also hailed from the North Country—as interpreter were he forced to communicate with the man.

Conventionally concealed behind one of the paintings (this one a rather lovely portrait of Mama in her youth), the safe contained many papers of import; but their combined value was as nothing set against the contents of the long, slim, and rather worn jewel case revealed as brown paper and string were stripped away. For within this box lay the legendary Heart of Ciara—a sapphire beyond price in a setting of fine diamonds, depending from a chain of purest silver.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=MamaAstinwithHoC.jpg)

Throughout the long history of the Earls of Astin this had been the betrothal gift of the heir to name and estate. Here was the precious, tangible symbol of his heart, which could only ever be offered to his chosen bride. And perhaps legend had influenced life, for the Astin heirs tended to marry for love. Should, on occasion, an arranged marriage prove as politic as for any other great family—even then, it was said, a way was found to turn indifference to passion.

Each bride might keep and wear the Heart for so long as it was unneeded by her son. One of Sean’s earliest memories was of Mama leaning over him and of the white fire that dangled before his face, a blue blaze at its centre. His hands still remembered the weight of it between far smaller fingers. But following the death of her beloved husband, she had returned it into Sean’s keeping and it had languished in the safety of darkness ever since.

He weighed the box in his hand now, hearing the slow slither of delicate links over velvet. Setting it down upon his desk he fiddled with the fastening but could not bring himself to open it. Possibly he _ought_ indeed to do as Elizabeth advised—pocket the pledge and proceed directly to the house in Audley Street, there to request Hestia’s hand of her father, and her acceptance of his heart as symbolised here. 

It would not have been truth, however. He may bring himself to offer for Hestia to alleviate the single state for each of them, with every intention of being a kind and attentive husband, and even a hopeful father. His heart, though, could not be a part of their bargain—and he doubted very much that even so potent a family heirloom could influence him in that. 

Well, this visit of Lady Rathesay provided the perfect excuse to let the matter lie a little longer. _Sufficient unto the day_ , Grandmama Patrick would undoubtedly have advised, in light of her own scarcely unspotted past. He took that thought with him as he locked away the precious thing and closed the portrait over all. He resolved to speak with Hestia herself, as soon as a suitable opportunity arose, and apply to her papa thereafter.

Somewhat cheered, Sean turned his attention to the arrangement of an evening designed to delight a gaggle of giddy damsels. They may well have escaped from the schoolroom into Society at last, but Sean’s previous experience of nieces led him to believe that Lavinia and her intimate friends would also retain still a simple liking for childish things.

He sent the second footman—who had nieces of his own and was therefore able usefully to augment his master’s suggestions upon the subject—to discover for him what else might be afoot at Vauxhall that night. He may be a less than enthusiastic host, but it would be very much less than polite to allow his guests to perceive it. When Mossop returned, not only had he arranged a palatial box for the viewing of the main attraction, he had obtained a generous quantity of tickets—his lordship having been quite vague as to the numbers to which he must play escort—for a performance of marionettes beforehand, and for one of the suppers (wafer-thin ham and all) for which Vauxhall was renowned. 

There remained, of course, the question of transport. Years of squiring parties of his various sisters’ offspring to venues of interest in and around the Metropolis had ingrained in him an absolute conviction that a successful excursion at least _began_ with all the participants in the same place. Assembly at the Selkirks’ residence seemed to Sean to be the most logical—and after all, why should his small house strain to accommodate so large a party, when theirs was so much more suitable in size? 

He foresaw and would, as ever, ignore Elizabeth’s usual comment—that he should never have hired out Astinley House, with its multiplicity of rooms and fine view of The Park; no matter that the Bramptons were the most charming of people, whose requirement for a property with a ballroom was infinitely greater than his own, in this year of their twin daughters’ come-out. He foresaw also his own, usual reply: that for a single man to rattle around in a family mansion was a quite simply a waste of resources of which others had need. 

Again, for a single man, the use of a hackney carriage—crossing the river by the Westminster Bridge—would prove by far the more practical of journeys. For his niece and her guests, however, there must be the short voyage by ferry, which would form for them as much a part of the evening’s entertainment as the firework display to come. The traverse from Westminster’s Water Stair to Vauxhall’s could be relied upon to supply a touch of adventure that appealed greatly to those whose schoolroom days were not so very far behind them. 

He could at least be sure that the Gardens would attract rather fewer than usual of the _less affluent_ classes, who could yet afford the shilling for admittance. Whatever the popularity of the spectacle tonight, the numbers attending could not possibly rival the many thousands present at the fancy dress jubilee celebration held just a few years earlier. Not when the pyrotechnics might be viewed _gratis_ —and probably in greater comfort—from so many elevated vantage points for miles around. 

Barring parties like this for which he was inveigled into driving tab, Sean’s own experience of the Gardens was of two distinctly different kinds. He had often escorted Mama, and occasionally one or two of his sisters, to the sublime concerts she enjoyed so much whenever she was in Town. Somewhat less respectably, he had also passed entire evenings here during his salad days, entertaining his various flirts in return for rather more _corporeal_ entertainments behind the thick curtains of the private boxes. Which reminded him… 

_Not yet—business before pleasure!_ But he had denied himself too long—soon, then. _Soon!_

He called Mossop to him and sent him off once again—this time to engage one of the many small craft plying the cross-Thames trade. Sean could foresee for himself only an evening of singular (if politely well-concealed) boredom, though he hoped that his guests, at least, may enjoy both visit and spectacle. However, any resultant lowness of spirit was averted somewhat by a modicum of complacency at having fulfilled (if through Mossop's agency) the commission set before him; and considerably more by remembrance of the promise he had just made to himself.

In this frame of mind he penned and despatched not one, but two missives. The first must of course be to Elizabeth, reporting in detail the arrangements he had made, and delegating to her and to Lavinia the task of selecting (and assembling) those to whom he must play host. He entertained a hope that at least _one_ of them, chaperones aside, may be over the age of eighteen and reasonably conversable.

The other was a swifter note. All duties for the moment thoroughly complete, he could reward himself with a visit to Mrs Moreton at last. In her company he would enjoy an evening of unalloyed pleasure, troubled neither by familial obligations nor by matrimonial considerations of any kind whatsoever.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	6. In which an Accidental Voyeur...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the SIXTH
> 
> _In which an Accidental Voyeur is both Intrigued_  
>  _and Somewhat Disconcerted…_  
> 

It was growing dark at last, if not yet dark enough for some. The months of late spring and early summer might be relied upon for rather better weather for all manner of clandestine nocturnal activity, but they could prove a trial to those whose calling required both night and silence. 

In the gathering gloom a figure hurried along the footway, cloaked and hooded. A servant upon an urgent errand perhaps, or returning in tardy haste from a permitted family visit which had stretched far beyond its allotted time; anxious either way, it seemed, to reach that destination before true night should fall.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/seerslair/media/Enderby%20Street.jpg.html)

Nothing whatever in the bearing of this person could possibly have suggested that the destination in question was in fact Montagu House—in despite of the fact that its doors were now very firmly closed for the night.

Still less was there anywhere the slightest hint that the _service_ to be performed upon arrival would result, before morning, in a significant reduction in the size of the collection of antiquities contained therein; or, indeed, that the sole return upon their loss the authorities would ever receive were profuse thanks contained upon the small but gaily decorated card of a gentle straw-colour, left in the stead of certain ancient artefacts. These being much coveted by an avid collector of such things—an extremely wealthy man, if somewhat conveniently lacking in the matter of scruples—the remuneration offered would be, as ever, exceptionally generous (even allowing for the inevitable moiety payable to the receiver who must facilitate the transaction).

The figure turned purposefully to pass along another street of yet more respectable houses. Brass knockers gleamed in the very last of the light, and steps still showed well-scrubbed and whitened—clear to see and leaving no visitor in danger of a stumble. The late evening quiet, as the inhabitants settled to their rest following a day of honest toil, was in complete contrast with the bustle of the truly fashionable parts of Town, where the night’s entertainments would have barely begun. _This_ district was merely genteel; no-one with even the smallest pretension to cutting a figure in Polite Society could possibly admit to paying a call at such an address, much less to actually residing there.

And yet— 

A frothed edge of white petticoat swirled forward from beneath the all-concealing cloak, in the agitation of a sudden halt. 

At the further end of the street, one of the smug and rather prim front doors had opened, spilling a better light into the late evening dusk. It made a distinct if momentary silhouette of the departing guest who paused to return the polite if unascribed, ‘Good evening,’ from a most correctly attired manservant. The door closed and was securely locked behind him then, but that one brief glimpse was more than sufficient for one with both knowledge and interest sufficient to identify a member of the nobility, no less; though what business an Earl may have, here and now, was matter at once for conjecture.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Voyeur2.jpg)

Oblivious to either surveillance or surmise, the Earl in question stepped briskly from the house and strode off in the opposite direction from the interested observer, just as the watchman passed along the road beyond, calling eleven of the clock.

It was indeed a strange hour at which to conclude a social call in a neighbourhood such as this. The inhabitants were as worthy and respectable as their houses—in the most part families whose menfolk were solidly occupied within The City, with a few properties inhabited by widows or by spinster sisters hiding threadbare lives on tiny pensions perhaps, or on the income from letting out their better rooms. There might here and there be a former retainer ensconced by a responsible employer; a long-outgrown but fondly remembered nurse, or a much valued butler no longer able for the labour of cellar work. The fact remained, however, that the hour for visiting even such welcoming premises was long since past.

One reason for so late a departure by a single gentleman may be ruled out completely. This entire small district was surely far too genteel for even the most circumspect house of ill-repute to consider it worth a presence here. 

But then again…

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	7. In Which an Unexpected Meeting…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the SEVENTH
> 
>  
> 
> _In which an Unexpected Meeting Gives Rise to a Kiss, a Rescue,_  
>  _Several Apologies, a Second Kiss, and a Nod to The Bard;_  
>  _also—amongst Other Things—to Some Considerable Introspection_  
>  _on the Part of his Lordship_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the huge gap in posting I got caught up in my other two fics and kept thinking I would post HoC _next_ time...
> 
> I shall do better in future!
> 
> ~~~

‘Oh!’ 

Without warning a figure had emerged at full tilt from the shadowy bushes that lined the lighted walk, and run straight into him. His lordship caught up the weight within his arms, momentum sweeping them both around in a whirl of flowing skirts. 

A pale face peeped down at him from within a hooded domino of deepest blue. It had slipped back to reveal a matching half-mask that sparkled fire at the outer corners of the eyes, edged around by ebony curls. A tiny heart-shaped patch hovered deliciously beside a tempting mouth. The eyes were half-shuttered, mysterious in their concealment beneath a tracery of dark lashes.

‘I beg pardon!’ gasped the unknown one.

‘The fault was entirely mine,’ Sean said mendaciously. The creature was so ravishing that he must needs accept all and any blame, that she might look upon him with favour. Something that was not merely lust stirred within him as he held her to him.

He had granted himself this breathing space from the onerous task of driving tab to his niece’s Vauxhall visit. Will, good fellow that he was (invited especially to squire Miss Wood, for whom Lavinia had a great admiration), had nodded understandingly at Sean’s unspoken plea for a temporary escape. A number of Lavinia’s particular friends had brought along a brother for escort—almost all of them callow youths, as entranced as their sisters by the evening’s entertainment. Sir Elijah’s presence, however, had apparently been requested to no avail, he being engaged elsewhere this night. 

Several chaperones were present, of course—Elizabeth amongst them, so well in charity with _her_ brother for once that the subject of matrimony had made not even a sidelong appearance as yet. Sean need not scruple, having seen his guests already well content at the supper tables, to stroll out into the quiet darkness for a little while. Just then he had preferred a modicum of peace to the most delicious offering of any chef in London.

His arms now occupied by a delectable morsel of an entirely different nature, he recalled the prime reason for a visit to the Gardens of more than a few persons, and of both sexes. Indeed he had taken full advantage, in his own not quite so callow youth, of the licence to be found here if looked for. Congress of a rather less than respectable kind might be conducted in the many concealed nooks and alleys—and ravish _able_ may be a distinct possibility. 

Certainly she had the most kissable mouth he had seen in some time, so perhaps… And he _was_ still holding her—she had not recoiled from his embrace like a prim and missish young lady.

A husky, breathless voice asked, ‘Would you do something for me, my lord?’

Without wondering how she knew him—if indeed the giving of his title had been other than flattery—Sean prepared to set her on her feet. ‘For you, milady, anything,’ he said with a definite suggestion of flirt as he returned the salutation. Before he could ask what she would of him, elegantly gloved arms curved lightly around him and the bewitching face was tipped to his. 

‘Kiss me?’ was both request and warning as he was claimed without pause for his assent. 

Here was definitely no shy maiden. Sean’s lips were taken and teased, almost casually at first, but as he responded their mouths melted together in a kiss of surpassing sweetness. An almost soundless sigh of the throat was approval, incitement, even an admission of desire, as her hands slid upward to caress his face.

She could have found no better way had she tried, to spur Sean’s sudden arousal, though his gentle probing encountered smooth and even teeth, resolutely closed to his entry. The tip of his tongue played in the tiny gap at front, and even that contributed to his need. Breath quickening, he pulled her close to seek much-needed stimulation for body as well as mouth, but she stiffened in his arms and squirmed back from him.

‘Oh, no, my lord!’ There was a tease in the beguiling voice, if also a resolution that brooked no dissent. ‘I may be unmannerly and forward, but I am no light-skirt for your tumbling!’

‘Forgive me, milady,’ he said. ‘I had not meant—’

‘Had you not? Then perhaps…’ The tone was playful, and there was forgiveness in the fingers that smoothed lightly over his cheek, a hint that lips might follow. Sean could not remember ever to have been so desperate for even the simplest of kisses.

Suddenly, from the direction whence she had appeared, a knot of men strode from the shadows, several of them loud and indignant. 

‘Ha! We have the strumpet now!’ cried the foremost of them, triumphantly, and made to seize hold of Sean’s companion.

Sean tightened his arm around her and pulled her into his side. ‘How may I assist you, gentlemen?’ he asked in his haughtiest tone.

‘We are in pursuit of the woman whom you are _pawing_ , and intend to deliver both her and you to the nearest officer of the law!’

‘My dear, I hope that you will excuse me,’ said Sean, placing her firmly behind him before planting a facer on the first man and turning to square up to the second. More than one man in London had rued the mistaking of his lordship’s compact physique for a lack of skill and sheer power.

‘W—wait!’ said a voice from the rear of the group, and another of the party interposed himself between Sean and his next intended victim, hands high in surrender lest he too be despatched. ‘My lord, indeed I— _we_ beg your pardon!’ 

This was clearly no courtesy title but one who knew him in truth. The young man's face was bright with the considerable mortification of knowing his companions to have mistaken so high a member of the nobility for a common felon.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ he said loudly. ‘I assure you that this is my Lord Astin. It is impossible to conceive of his complicity in any nefarious deed whatever! We beg your lordship's pardon most sincerely—also that of your companion, of course.’ 

He bowed and waved a hand in an inclusive gesture, meant to indicate the entire small group; though at least one of them—a belligerent man with a tendency to corpulence, who had been the last to arrive due to a distinct shortage of breath—looked as if for two pins he would have challenged the suggestion. 

‘We shall leave you now, my lord, and seek our quarry elsewhere.’ The knowledgeable one inclined his head politely once again before bending to assist the downed man to his feet, still fairly incapacitated. Then, with a series of meaningful looks, he persuaded the rest of the group make their bows and depart. They moved more temperately now, however, as hounds for whom the scent had cooled. Supper being as yet underway, there were few other revellers close at hand, and they quickened their steps to follow those who could be seen in the distance.

Sean watched them walk—or limp—away, then turned to look at the damsel beside him. She appeared to be trembling and he gathered her into a new embrace, meaning only comfort, now. 

‘What’s this? You are surely not afeared of them when they are gone?’

But then the masked face was raised to his and a giggle escaped. He realised that the quivering was suppressed laughter, contagious enough that the absurdity had them both breathless until Sean finally pulled back. 

‘My lady, why were those men following you?’

‘A case of mistaken identity,’ was all the answer he received. He opened his mouth to ask further but a finger laid upon it made to hush him; from its gentle tracing a hasty fire shot downward to his groin as was surely never intended.

‘I can but give you my word that I am truly not the one they seek. I thank you more than you can know for your timely assistance, my lord. Though I must leave you now, I shall—most assuredly—never forget the manner of our meeting!’ The mask tipped back again, warm lips sought his, inviting another kiss. It was but a fleeting echo of what had gone before, yet it fuelled his arousal finely. 

He tried to clutch her to him, a clumsy attempt to detain this fascinating girl who stirred him to desire more readily than any he had met before. 

Alas, he clutched in vain. So smoothly that he had no idea how it was accomplished, the warmth melted from within the circle of his arms. A murmur of, ‘I thank you most sincerely, my lord,’ another brush of lips, and shadow blended into darkness beyond the lighted walk.

‘Wait! Please?’ he called after her.

The shadow stilled. ‘My lord?’

‘You—I—You know who I am, but I have no name for you!’

‘Do you not, my lord? Then you may call me… Aliena!’ A giggle faded into the night, and Sean was all alone.

He knew beyond doubt that he had at last experienced Diana’s ‘leap of the heart’—this, however, was surely more akin to a _coup de foudre_. All it had taken was a single kiss. No, a single look. It was almost a recognition, as if they were fated to meet like this. Something in Aliena reached out to him, as Sean had claimed her in his turn.

And he had simply let her go! Not, he admitted, that his pursuit would have been worth much at all, if one set the speed and grace of her movements against his current state of mind and body. Sean made carefully for a nearby bench—convenient though remarkably unyielding, being carved from stone—and sagged down upon it.

He felt— _knew!_ —already that his careless first assumption about her must be completely wrong. It was true that a solitary female within the Gardens may well have motives which were far from chaste. But if that were indeed the case, his advances must have been welcomed, her modesty for show alone. That she had left his protection proved hers to be no such thing. 

Nor could she possibly be guilty of whatever offence those ruffians would accuse her. Such a one was no petty sneak-thief—he would not doubt her given word. The mask in itself meant little enough; it was accepted that there was also liberty of a more innocent kind to be found here as nowhere else in England. The anonymity of a mask merely made possible that freedom from convention for those who sought it, that they might enjoy without restraint the amusements on offer at the Vauxhall Gardens. 

She had appeared so hastily and completely without benefit of the chaperone a girl of the _ton_ would have, and yet she had instantly repulsed his overt desire—clumsy, unmannerly oaf that he was, to have submitted her to such impertinence!—as delicately as any of his nieces may refuse an over-importunate suitor behind some expedient curtain at the grandest of society balls.

It was indisputable, though, that she had asked for—nay, had practically _demanded_ —a kiss, which should have made of her the most brazen of hussies. And it was an incontrovertible fact that no female of breeding _should_ ask to be kissed—at least upon so short an acquaintance; Sean was possessed of too many sisters and nieces to believe the thing more impossible than that. Yet she had that indefinable air that comes of breeding alone and cannot wholly be learned. 

And _such_ a kiss! No girl of Sean’s acquaintance—well-bred or not—had ever kissed him to such instant and overwhelming effect. It had been bold—forward in the extreme. His body bore firm evidence of just _how_ much it had affected him. But it had been a beautiful thing and worlds apart from the brazen licentiousness that was certainly to be found here, were one to go looking.

No, her denial of being a light-skirt, he believed implicitly; her bearing was as elegant as any female in the _ton_ , her clothing every whit as fine. He would stake an equal fortune that the jewels on her mask were real. Her speech alone proclaimed her gently born. The breathy murmur that he had felt as much as heard—his groin tightened again, as he recalled its flutter against his cheek—spoke of her modesty. He could not fathom who she may be, to be here and seemingly alone. Surely one so beautiful had not come without protectors? 

He had let her go! His own stupidity struck him with all the force of a blow.

How could he have permitted her to disappear like that, when she may yet— _Heaven forfend!_ —meet once more with her vulgar, brutish pursuers? He knew that although he had accepted her word, her accusers—should they discover her alone—would not again believe her innocent of whatever misdemeanour they sought so vehemently to avenge. 

Sean cursed himself roundly for allowing her to escape him—and not only because of that possible danger. Fool that he was! Having found love at last, he had allowed it to slip from his grasp within minutes of that finding. He had let her go, with nothing more than an alias borrowed from within a play by which to mourn her loss. For he knew full well that he might haunt this place from now until the last trump of Doom and never find her here, if she _chose_ that he should not.

But if, as he believed, she held some place at least within Society, he must meet her _some_ where, for one met everyone in the _ton_ , soon or late. Had they indeed _already_ met, and that was how she had known him at the first? Had he, through his own blind arrogance, somehow missed her amid the plethora of maidens presented to his notice? No matter—from this night forward, he would watch for her. He would examine every young woman at every social occasion to which he was invited. 

He considered the little he knew of her. Patently she was not _Aliena_ , though it seemed she must to some degree, at least, be an admirer of the Bard. No blue-stocking, however, he was sure of it—so wicked a sense of humour, so delightful a giggle could never belong to one who was staid and serious. She could not be too difficult to find: a quick wit allied to beauty and grace—and to such kisses…

His lordship sighed and prepared himself to return to his guests. But he vowed now that he would not rest until he discovered his Aliena again—until he held her in his arms once more.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/seerslair/media/Aliena%202.jpg.html)  



	8. In which the Results of Illusion...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the EIGHTH
> 
> _In which the Results of Illusion are Found to be Distressingly Tangible;_  
>  _an Assignation is Made and a Chaperon Self-Appointed;_  
>  _and the Reality of Kisses Proves Infinitely Superior to the Memory Thereof_  
> 

Always, it began with dancing. 

A boundless, formless, crowded ballroom, strident with chattering voices and a hectic flow of tinkled melody. A host of dominoes incognito, their colours all uncounted, converging here in solemn, elegant procession. They meet and swirl and meet once more beneath the glittered light of many a thousand mirrored candles.

He passes unnoticed through the couples who keep aright their lines perpetual and set formations, and gives no hindrance to the rhythmic patterns they construct here so exactly. He merely watches, wanders, searches intently through the endless masked and faceless forms, as they step forward, blend and part, only to merge again. Ever and anon he is caught within the flow of movement—never to dance, simply to take into his arms a girl he hopes may be his Aliena.

 _This one?_ He gathers her to him—so thin and so unyielding. 

_Another?_ Too softly fleshy to his touch. 

Surely her elegance is _here_? But that giggle of delight is lacking, the voice too sharp without its teasing edge. 

_This_ is a welcome every whit as forward—and yet, such wanton writhing is no part of his lady. 

At times it seems a form may match the rare perfection he remembers. Then, like the Prince in fairy-tale romance, must he discover his lost love, save that here is no dainty slipper but the sweet damp glide that matches lip to lip. Below its silken mask, each mouth lies cruelly tempting—demure and pinkly pretty, or open and willing, or full-lipped, bitten into redness. Each one heartless, raising breathless hope to dash it low once again, with stale or cold or empty kisses that hold him not at all.

Little by more the measure of the dance increases, whirling fast and faster into further constellations of complexity. At each new turn a flying glimpse of radiant blue proclaims that she is there before him, though desperate hands clutch naught but empty air however hard he tries to draw her to him. Time and again she melts from a hold he thinks is sure, appearing elsewhere amid the maze of dancers. She is here—no, here—no, _there!_ —yet always just beyond his reach. 

The music hastens ever on, as quick and fleet and quicker still the dancers keep their step unwearied. Looping to and fro or by and round him, each pair steps up neatly, hands interlaced as ever, once he has passed them by. They grow careless now in their blind pursuit of some new step, he in quest of his lady fair. He is buffeted this way and that, his glimpses of her myriad as from the tilting whirl he seeks her, for here is she—everywhere yet nowhere still. 

Dizzied and heedless, he pulls masked damsels to him one by one, but each face is featureless and blank, each body fits him ill. Within each mouth he tastes naught but the bitterness of despair.

Always he must come thus to the shattered hope of ever finding her—to stand at last and cry his Aliena to the circling stars as he spins out into the dark. Only then will the jangled note of violin and harpsichord slowly quieten, dissolving to a murmured sigh of many leaves upon the evening air. Only then will a gentle breeze bring balm for his desperation in the whisper of her voice. 

_Kiss me… Kiss me, my lord… Kiss me…_

Then shadow reforms in the remembered swish of silken skirts and here is she—his beloved Aliena, warm and lithe within his arms at last. Body moulded perfectly to his, hands sliding softly upward to caress his face, lips seeking his own in eager accord, with that same small purring sigh of invitation, tongues teasing, challenging, inciting, giving—

Sean woke with a gasp to sticky sheets and another day which, he feared, was like to prove as full of hope and yet as empty of fulfilment as every other since he found and lost his only love.

He had little appetite for breakfast, merely toying with the dishes Hume set upon the table before him. On a salver at his elbow lay the usual collection of missives. Those clearly concerned with estate matters alone could be set aside at once to await his steward’s attention. The remainder, being of a more personal nature, his lordship must presently examine for himself. 

Of the colourfully tinted ones, almost all would contain invitations to balls, to masques, to rout parties and many another entertainment, their variation limited solely by the ingenuity of London’s hostesses. There would be a few of a practical sort—writ on plain white stock in a bold, no nonsense script—to meets for sporting activities, to purely male card parties. Fewer still would herald quiet, conversable evenings with other fellows having a taste for stimulating discussion. 

The coloured kind were often drenched in perfume whose tenacity would taint the fingers for hours; each solicitous invitation, in a flowing feminine hand, was as nothing to the welcome he could expect if he actually attended the event in question. It was not vanity but experience—often bitter with the pangs of disillusion—that made Sean aware he had been for long enough possibly the most eligible bachelor in London. The Astin lands and title might be principally Irish but since they came well-coated in funds and with the added attraction of the English estate, his desirability was not lessened thereby in the eyes of those with daughters to settle to advantage. 

He had never thought that it would pall, to be sought so eagerly by each unmarried lady—young and not so young—taking part in The Season. As a youth fresh from his Grand Tour he had found it almost intoxicating; of late years it had lost every attraction it may once have held for him. 

It was actually relief to know that dubious accolade had passed to Sir Elijah Wood—with due regard for the possible _idiosyncrasies_ , perhaps… Sean doubted that he of all men would appreciate the position, and hoped vaguely that he may be successful in evading a pursuit he could not relish. Sean, however, had quarry of his own now to pursue—and amongst the invitations he was neglecting to read may be the very one to lead him to her discovery if not the longed-for capture.

On the whole, he was rather more inclined than not to attend when bidden by the highest of sticklers, for oddly enough, those same sticklers tended to be people of whom Mama told fascinating tales of quite outrageous antics in their shared heyday. An adroit mention of her _fond recollection_ often proved amusing in itself. Of the rest, for the most part he decided his acceptance by the least amount of boredom he might expect to find there; by the likely presence of those he knew to have wit and charm enough to prevail against the unutterable sameness that comprised a London Season. 

For the past sennight he had been assiduous in his attendance—though it be for a scant hour only—at several functions upon each single evening. Many an hostess had issued her invitation on no surer ground than high optimism that my Lord Astin may _possibly_ grace the offered entertainment with his presence, and was consequently stunned into raptures by his appearance within her rooms. He feared he may have raised unfounded hope in the breasts of a number of damsels, but it could not be helped.

Despite all effort, _no_ where, amidst any gathering of females old or young, could he catch a glimpse of the elegant figure he sought, nowhere could he discover even the echo of her giggle. Aliena must herself know how very characteristic it was, and perhaps she suppressed it should he come within a hearing distance.

He shook his head and laid aside the most odiferous of his correspondence, unopened for the moment. Of the rest, there were two this morning which seemed to fit neither of the usual categories. Upon opening, the first proved peremptory—almost brusque. Signed with decision by Lady Rathesay, it was a summons to attend her ladyship in Audley Street upon the following morning. Hestia’s grandmother, intending no doubt to take him most severely to task for his dilatory courtship and the marriage as yet unproposed to her granddaughter. 

With a sigh, he set it down just as Hume’s voice in the hall returned a loudly cheerful greeting. But the projected visit to Broughton’s with Will faded to insignificance, however, as he took up the second missive. Its direction was firm but elegant too, and his gaze sharpened as he raised it to his nose. 

It bore none but the faintest of perfumes: one he could not name yet would recognise anywhere. Not precisely feminine, not flowery at all, every note of it spoke to him of the delicious scent of Aliena’s warmth within his arms. Eager but careful, he spread it quickly open.

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

Sean could only stare down at it, at the precious signature of the one he had believed lost to him forever, his heart beginning to race and joy flooding mind and body, both.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Without warning, the note was tweaked from his fingers. ‘It looks—and smells, if with considerably greater restraint than is usual—remarkably like _un billet-doux_ … And, moreover, one for which you were hoping, and upon which you appear now to be positively _doting_! What is the meaning of this, my lord?’ Will dangled the precious letter in the air before Sean’s face. 

Sean’s sigh this time was exasperation alone. He had known his friend for far too long to suppose that he could be fobbed off with anything other than the truth. And there was no denying that to speak of his Aliena—in return for possession of her letter—must be a vast relief. 

‘…and then, fool that I am, I let her go without hope of ever seeing her again!’

‘It has not occurred to you, I suppose, that, having given you time to thoroughly regret that fact, she may have sent this message in order to spring a trap of some sort? I presume it invites you to a further assignation?’ At Sean’s nod, Will surveyed his friend intently.

‘ _You_ are a catch, my lord, and if this _Aliena_ was unaware of it then, she certainly knows it now. Not merely who you are and where you reside, but also that you were far from indifferent to her charms.’

‘Had you met her, you could never believe so ill of her!’ Sean retorted.

Will shook his head pityingly. ‘The Vauxhall Gardens are scarcely the Forest of Arden, old fellow. True love is not the commodity most often either sought or discovered there. Belike she’ll scream everything from rape to murder, and you’ll be forced to the altar no matter what sort of thief or criminal she may be!’

Sean bit his lip, fists clenching at his side. But Will had no notion of her, could not know— ‘You should not say such things of her with no proof whatever!’ 

‘Do you have _proof_ to the contrary?’ Will looked hard at him then. ‘My God, Sean—you're in love! This girl—she could be the biggest whore in the kingdom and you’d take her in her shift!’

‘No! Yes. No—I don’t know. She _isn’t_ —that much I do know!’

‘ _How_ , pray?’

‘I—I just know it.’ 

Will sighed ostentatiously, flung himself into the nearest comfortable chair and spoke to the ceiling. ‘And here was I, believing calf love an affliction only of the very young and foolish! Well,’ said he, pulling himself upright once again and speaking with decision, ‘ _I_ am coming too. At least you will have one impartial witness to speak for you when you are sued for breach of promise.’

‘Impartial? _You_? Nosy, belike!’

‘That too, but I am still coming with you, Sean.’ Will’s face sobered. ‘You have rescued me from more than one indiscretion—it is _my_ turn now to speak the voice of reason. I will not allow you to be duped to an unwise marriage if I can help it, my friend!’

Accordingly, at a quarter before nine that evening, their lordships waited within the Vauxhall Gardens. Sean fidgeted beneath a tree with a good view of the Diana Fountain, Will had concealed himself within the small temple close at hand. 

Sean waited nervously, impatiently; eager to see her again but with Will's melancholy conviction still echoing in his ears—that the Aliena of whom he dreamed, for whom he longed, may be no more than a thief, a drab, a scheming hussy who desired his position in life and never Sean himself. Even as he tried the thought, he knew it to be untrue. He _needed_ no proof—and Will would see her aright, soon enough.

‘My kisses mean so little that you would share them with this friend of yours?’ 

He had heard nothing, seen no-one approach, but the voice was husky at his ear, and the laughing accusation breathed warm across his cheek.

‘My lady—Aliena!’ He turned quickly, and here at last was the figure that haunted his dreams both night and day, dipping with grace into a regal curtsy. He returned his most courtly bow. A breathless pause, and then those silks were warm and real beneath his hands, the mask bright and sparkling above a mouth that promised nothing it would not fulfil. 

And oh, his dreams had belied, had undervalued the grace and warmth and beauty that were here…

‘Ahem.’ 

From far away, unimportant enough and easy to ignore, came a sound that seemed but a minor threat to the bliss Sean found in the absolute perfection of those lips upon his own again at last.

‘Ahem.’ 

He had been so sure that if he ignored it, it would disappear, yet seemingly he was wrong.

‘Ahem.’

An inward swoop of air was needed now, and his love could no longer kiss for laughter. Teasing words spilled soft into his mouth. ‘My lord, we have company, and this display is most unseemly!’

Sean came to a realisation of his hands still clasping the face beneath the mask, thumbs gently stroking the delicate curve of cheek, the elegant nose, the sweet bow of mouth into his memory. 

And Will was still there, inflicting upon them that damnably recurrent, insistent, _polite_ little cough. 

_‘Ahem.’_

With a smile and a sigh, Sean allowed himself to be dragged into the real world once again. Taking her hand, he said formally, ‘My lady Aliena, may I present to you my great friend and confounded nuisance, William Devereux, Viscount Royde.’

The curtsey this time would have done honour to His Majesty. _‘Enchanté, Messire Devereux!’_

 _‘L'honneur est le mien, mademoiselle, je vous assure!’_ Will’s bow was no less magnificent.

‘Does my lord Astin _really_ need your protection so badly?’ 

‘What? I— _No!_ —That is—’ His stuttered embarrassment was only increased by the teasing giggle.

‘The truth is that Will Devereux is far too inquisitive for his own good! I can dismiss him if you would prefer his absence?’ For himself, Sean would _infinitely_ prefer it, but he would agree to whatever she asked of him. He had determined already that he would not this time clutch and lose.

Aliena, possibly recalling caution, had no wish, it seemed, to be alone with him tonight. She welcomed Will as guest and not merely as chaperon, and at her suggestion they turned their steps toward the music, lights and general hubbub that heralded the evening’s ball. 

‘Do you dance, my lord?’

‘Dance? Astin? Never! Without he was forced into it, I cannot remember the last time ever I s—’ Will stopped short, as Sean extended a hand to lead out his Aliena into the set just forming.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Tiriel/media/dancing-lights.jpg.html)

‘You dance well, my lord,’ was a teasing sally as they met and parted to the measure. ‘And yet the Viscount seems a trifle taken aback—you do not usually indulge?’

In truth, as his sisters had promised long ago, Sean was suddenly very grateful for their endless tuition and the hours of practice he had been forced to give. His teaching had not deserted him, though he could not hope to match the graceful elegance of his partner.

‘I rarely dance,’ he said, frankly, ‘and seldom by choice.’

A tilt of the head hinted at disbelieving eyebrows beneath the jewelled half-mask. ‘And _I_ love to do so!’

He did not need the telling, so well did movement meet the music to perfection. ‘With you, I could perhaps learn to, for I have never before enjoyed it so much,’ he confessed. 

‘A veritable compliment—and a promise to which I may hold you!’ 

‘Whenever you will,’ he replied soberly, knowing already that simply to be with her was worth any amount of dancing. ‘But I do not see you at any of the balls or masquerades—and believe me, I have looked, this past week!’

‘And yet, _I_ have seen _you_ , my lord!’ 

‘Where? When? It is impossible! How could you do so and I not know you?’

‘I did not wish to be seen,’ was as unsatisfactory as a reply might be.

For Sean the evening passed all too quickly. When Will requested the honour of a dance or two, he bore with equanimity the sight of his Aliena clasping another by the hand. It was pity only that they should somehow contrive to take places in the set so far from him that—given also the bustle on and around the dance floor—he was barely able to appreciate from afar the grace and elegance she presented. 

As he impatiently awaited the conclusion of a surely overlong _contredanse_ , a pair of not-quite gentlemen passed slowly behind him then, snatches of their conversation drifting to him through the rise and fall of many voices.

‘… indeed—but never for touch beyond a victor’s brief…’

‘Victor?’

‘… plays like a demon—wins like one too…’

‘… surely jest?’ 

‘Devil a bit of it!’

‘… harmless enough, despite the incog…’ 

‘… expertise, masquerading as…’ 

‘… challenge…’

‘… indeed, but—’ the knowledgeable one became both decisive and more audible at the last, ‘—as you value your skin, never play her for _that_ unless you have a desire to be turned out of it!’ 

A brisk click of heels took them beyond his hearing, then—and none too soon, Sean thought. Really, he seemed positively _fated_ these days to overhear that which he had no desire whatever to know. The rumour-mongers tattled everywhere—and as he looked around, unable still to see more of Aliena or of Will than an intermittent glimpse, he could not now ignore the many heads that turned their way—and his. 

He wished he had anticipated a need of masks for himself and Will, when recognition was as inevitable as the gossip that must follow. Perhaps they might have averted at least some of the inferences patently whispered behind each fan or raised, gloved hand. For those few with whom he was acquainted, a curt nod sufficed to depress any attempt to approach him with question or remark. He would never normally have been so quelling, save that he needed no interruption to his enjoyment of tonight. 

But it was undeniable that the appearance here of an Earl and a Viscount—both dancing repeatedly with the same mysterious masked damsel—must give rise to speculation, and of the most titillating kind. It was surely undesirable in the extreme for one who needed anonymity, and yet Aliena—who must know it well—showed no hint of concern for consequence at all. And when Sean’s turn came around once again, his own anxiety melted into the joy of sharing her pleasure in the dance.

There must also be a Vauxhall supper, of course, for which he had bespoken a box. Throughout all, their conversation was smooth and easy, for Aliena was reticent only where her identity may be in question. She proved to possess an excellent understanding of the world, speaking with humour and good sense on subjects from art to politics to the finer points of horseflesh. 

He began to believe she must have brothers from whom she had learned to comprehend such sporting cant as he and Will let fall, laughing aside their quick apology, and even—with a roguish smile—returning a phrase or two in perfect context. Her wit, her ready mind, gave to her an interest Sean had found in few women, and in none for whom he had ever felt the slightest _tendre_ before this singular and fascinating girl. 

He thought it a good thing that Will should know her thus; he must now see she was too fine by far to be the schemer he imagined. And for himself, he knew he was falling deeper into love with every minute.

‘And will you not tell us her name, my lord?' 

Will had been betrayed by his blush at a sly question regarding his lack of a partner here tonight, and he had by now little more resistance to the bewitching smile than had Sean. 

‘One should not make free with the name of a lady, where no official arrangement has been made, yet I trust Sean and so must trust his chosen his lady also. You may not be acquainted with her for she makes her début only this year, having but recently returned to England from Paris. She is Miss Wood, sister to—’

‘I know of her.’ Aliena’s voice had suddenly a sharper edge to it. ‘You play fast and loose at your peril, my lord, for her brother is no mean swordsman—so rumour has it!’

‘Dash it all, my lady! I beg pardon! I mean to say—I would never take so much as her name in vain…’ His protests faded under Sean’s laughter.

‘Oho! And this the man who warned _me_ against leg-shackling!’

‘ _Leg-shackling_ , my lord?’ There was a tease once more within the question.

‘I have thought of marriage in that way, in the past,’ Sean confessed, ‘if no longer,’ he added quietly.

Aliena stilled for a moment. ‘It comes to almost all, soon or late—and now it is late indeed, and I must leave you, my lords.’

‘May I escort—?’ A shake of the head cut short Sean’s offer.

‘I also do not come _unprotected_ this night! My majordomo awaits me.’ One gloved hand flicked toward the shadow of trees beyond the lights and laughter. A tall and bulky figure stepped momentarily into sight—impassively attired in black, face mask correctly in place—before withdrawing once again.

‘I thank you for your company, my Lord Royde!’ The curtsey was regal as Will took that hand and kissed it. ‘And… if you would give us a moment, _Messire_?’

‘What? Oh. _Oh_! Yes, of course.’ Will betook himself quickly from sight, though Sean barely noticed his going.

‘Goodbye, my lord. I thank you for a most pleasant evening indeed.’ The hand was extended then to Sean, and in that instant he believed that the only kiss he might give. But then he was tugged forward, and for minutes uncounted warm and willing lips met his.

‘Wait,’ he said when, far too soon, she drew slowly away from him—as reluctant as he, it seemed, to part. ‘May I not see you again? Please?’

‘Perhaps…’ The word melted into darkness and Sean was alone once more.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=dancing-lights.jpg) [](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	9. In which a Rejection...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the NINTH
> 
> _In which a Rejection Proves More than Welcome_  
> 

On the following morning, the Earl presented himself at the mansion on Audley Street just a little _before_ the appointed hour. Her ladyship would likely keep him waiting anyway, but to give her an excuse for the crotchets would simply be foolish.

Harling greeted him most correctly, of course, though Sean sensed disappointment and perhaps even a tinge of disapproval in the butler's once fatherly tones. It was, after all, not only the members of the _ton_ in general who had anticipated an engagement to Hestia before this.

More loyal family retainers than he must have drawn a wrong conclusion from Sean’s unintentionally frequent escort of the daughter of the house; his sisters had much for which to answer. Harling had long been inclined to speak to Sean quite confidentially—almost as if he were a part of the family already. And when Sean paid the morning call in which he would for the first time meet one whom the butler must even then have considered his prospective grandmama-by-marriage, he had gone so far as to offer a few timely words of advice. 

‘If I might make so bold, my lord?’

Sean had raised a brow and waited.

‘Her ladyship has a particularly _forceful_ personality, my lord.’

It needed no august butler to inform Sean of that fact, for Mama had much to say as to the _personality_ of Sally Rathesay, both now and in the past. And he knew Polkinghorne himself to have a more than healthy respect for his mama-in-law. But a discreet indication as to the most successful manner in which to conduct himself could scarcely come amiss in what may prove a tricky introduction. ‘And…?’ he prompted gently.

‘Yes, indeed, my lord. That being so, it is noticeable that her ladyship appreciates most those who—if you will pardon the expression, my lord—those who _give as good as they get_. As the saying goes, my lord.’ The butler’s face quickly smoothed back into its customarily neutral façade.

‘Thank you, Harling. I shall remember that.’ 

And so he had, though it had been a near thing at times, despite the leaven of Hestia, her mama and at least three other morning callers of equally uncertain age and temper. And whenever his courage faltered in face of tartly disconcerting question, he was greatly sustained by the timely recollection of divers youthful indiscretions amongst his own Mama’s reminiscences. On the whole, his initial encounter with her ladyship had been—if not an unqualified success—at least rather less of an ordeal than he had anticipated; and she did not often come up to Town. 

He could not expect any amount of clever repartee to help him here. This interview must be even more unpleasant than its prospect on the previous day. 

Then, he had been prepared to honour the result of misconception, as little as he had intended it. He would admit to dilatoriness, apologise for the distress he may, however inadvertently, have caused, and make his promise to offer for Hestia were she still of a mind to accept him. But he hoped very much that Lady Rathesay had not come to town in a mood to pressure her granddaughter into a marriage with him, if Hestia had indeed turned her affections toward the fop. Much as he misliked the thought of her being tied to the flamboyant baronet, that was—if true indeed—surely none of his affair. Indeed, no decision made concerning Hestia’s future could now concern him in the slightest, for his own position in the matter was changed completely.

Now, he could in honour make no promise of any kind whatever. Aliena’s letter as much as their meeting proved that she had needed to meet with him again just as he had desired to see her. Her person, her kisses—both far more wonderful even than he remembered—showed that she could be for him more than the fleeting memory of a lost romance. There could no longer be any question of a loveless arrangement with Hestia—nor with anyone else. He must be free to cherish his Aliena as she deserved.

‘Her ladyship awaits you in the morning room, my lord,’ Harling said, as he led the way, ‘the remainder of the family having Gone Out.’ The fully audible (and highly portentous) use of capitals for his final words made it quite clear to Sean that, wherever the various members of the family may be, their absence was a dismissal ordered by the formidable lady whom he had come to visit.

Both Polkinghorne’s own mama and Sir Matthew Rathesay having cast off their earthly shackles some years before, her ladyship now occupied the Dower house on the estate. It was rumoured that the latter was in far better repair than the main residence, since her ladyship was otherwise childless and, moreover, possessed of a considerable fortune derived from her late husband’s financial speculations. The present incumbent of the Polkinghorne lands and title—a man for whom the extent of his own assets proved increasingly restrictive—had preferred always to disregard the provenance of his mama-in-law’s wealth. Both he and his wife, however, looked keenly forward to discovering the extent thereof, when her ladyship should finally relinquish her claim to all such worldly chattels.

Sean drew a deep breath as Harling announced his name in sonorous tones, and stepped forward to greet her.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=LadyRathesay.jpg)

‘Come in, come in!’ her ladyship said sharply, from her seat by the fire. ‘Afraid I shall take you to task for playing fast and loose with my granddaughter, eh, my lord?’

Sean approached and took her hand to bestow a polite greeting upon it. ‘Good morning, Lady Rathesay,’ he said. ‘I trust that I find you as vigorous in person as in spirit?’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘Well, I sha’n’t. Sit down, for heaven’s sake, or I shall have a crick in my neck too, before I know where I am!’ Following an unfortunate fall in the hunting field some years before, her ladyship’s back was irreparably damaged. Much of her irascibility, Mama said, could be attributed to the level of constant pain she valiantly concealed—that and her annoyance at the lack of a son to have put Polkinghorne’s nose severely out of joint in the matter of inheritance. 

Sean wondered, as he took the chair she indicated, whether her admonition may not also be a nod to the custom that unpalatable tidings should not be met standing.

‘I’ve brought you here to tell you something you may or may not like, but you’ll hear it just the same. I regret to inform you, my lord,’—though her voice held a note of slightly malicious enjoyment that told of no regret whatsoever—‘that you will not be marrying Hestia after all.’ 

Sean was conscious of instant relief even beyond curiosity—until a sudden, formless disquiet arose within him. He waited politely, knowing better than to interrupt with an enquiry. Her ladyship would explain in her own time and never in his. 

‘If the silly chit has led you to believe otherwise, then she should apologise—’ Sean began to shake his head but she waved away his protest, ‘—nonetheless, my lord, the plain fact is that Hestia Loves Another!’ It became suddenly clear to Sean from whom Harling had derived his _penchant_ for the employment of capitals. Their flourish of importance thus delivered, Lady Rathesay sat back in her chair the better to observe the effect of her pronouncement upon him.

His lordship could not really doubt who must be the object of Hestia’s affections. Elizabeth had tried to warn him, of course, that Hestia no longer considered him a suitor and that her attentions were now directed elsewhere. And he had seen for himself how much more relaxed—how much happier, indeed—she seemed in the company of Sir Elijah Wood than in his own. Then, too, there was the pretty friendship that had formed between her and Miss Hannah—no longer to be wondered at, if the two were to become sisters by marriage. 

Sean could not help but feel, however, as he had on the night of his return to Town, that such a union would not be _right_ somehow. Presumably the imputation he had overheard then played some part in his unease. Rumour, as ever, hinted at more than one man of the _ton_ whose commitment to the fair sex—and consequently to his wedding vows—was less than whole-hearted, upon whom only open scandal would bring disgrace. 

That could be none of his affair. Lady Rathesay, if not Hestia’s own Mama, would doubtlessly intimate beforehand that all may not be entirely as a bride would wish—if there were any truth whatever contained within such allegations. And indeed, the regard of a sympathetic female may be precisely what was required in order to convince the baronet of the true path of his inclinations, should these ever, indeed, have strayed.

More disquieting still was the realisation that, were Hestia to marry the fop, and Will his sister, Sean would likely be thrown into company with Sir Elijah and his bride rather more often than would otherwise be the case. Which would obviously be annoying, to say the least, and was doubtless the reason he found the entire notion so extremely unwelcome. However, there was nothing to be done in the case, since he would be most unhappy to lose Will’s friendship.

‘I see,’ he said weakly.

‘Humph! Didn’t expect you to look so dumpish, my lord! By what Hestia told me—and by how long you have taken never to come to the point—you weren’t exactly eager to wed her!’

Sean forced a smile. ‘Not dumpish at all, my lady,’ he said. ‘And I am very happy for Hestia that she has found a man to love, and one who will, I sincerely hope, make her far happier than ever I could.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen,’ her ladyship said shortly. ‘I’d not have thought his was a way of life Hestia would embrace, but when a girl takes it into her head to fall in love, she rarely worries about the consequences until it’s too late. In my day, there was none of this romantic nonsense. A girl married where her parents said she should and that was an end of it!’

But, had not Mama once said…? Ah, yes, he remembered now. 

‘Doubtless this was a tenet to which Lord and Lady Cranston subscribed wholeheartedly,’ Sean remarked blandly. Though Lady Rathesay may have aged into something of a martinet, Sally Cranston had been a famous beauty in her day—and had scandalised the entire _ton_ by eloping with a then-impecunious baronet when she held a Duke, two Earls and a Marquis at her beck and call.

‘Don’t you try to bandy smart words with _me_ , young man, I’ve dandled you on my knee! And _your_ mother was as flighty a hey-go-lightly piece as any, before marriage and motherhood calmed her down a trifle!’

‘Indeed, and I have heard her say the same of you, my lady,’ Sean said equably.

Lady Rathesay made a spirited attempt to conceal her amusement in her handkerchief, failed signally, and was driven to pretend it a coughing fit instead. Sean busied himself tactfully in pouring for her a restorative glass of the ratafia set out by Harling, presumably for her ladyship’s enjoyment, since there was also a perfectly acceptable sherry available. 

‘Be that as it may,’ she rallied, ‘we were not discussing my past, but Hestia’s future.’ She looked with the utmost distaste at the glass he was handing to her, waving it disdainfully away. ‘And I’ll not drink that sickly concoction no matter what my daughter—and her butler—may think _proper_. Sherry for me, if you please!’

Obediently, Sean brought the replacement and a glass for himself, before resuming his seat.

‘I’ll not deny that I think you to have been shabbily treated,’ her ladyship said. ‘Hestia _should_ have been honest with you. My addle-pated daughter, however, forbade her ever to speak you a single word of discouragement—the inducement being that the silly goose would be permitted to marry her nobody should you fail to come up to scratch in the end!’

The infelicity of the latter expression passed Sean by completely as soon as her ladyship spoke the word _nobody_ —for it was scarcely possible that anyone, anywhere, should refer thus to Sir Elijah Wood. He may or may not be many things, but a _nobody_ could never be one of them. 

‘I vow and declare to you, I doubt I was ever more shocked in my life,’ she continued, (her tone almost convincing him that she meant it), ‘than to find Hestia in my own shrubbery—without the vestige of a chaperone— _holding hands_ with young Conyngham!’

Sean was not uncaring of the fact that Hestia appeared to have found the very man for her; and not at any fashionable entertainment in Town, either, but apparently in the very village closest to her home. He listened with every appearance of fascinated interest as Hestia’s severely doting grandmama related the story in some detail. A visit to the vicarage, it seemed, had coincided with that of a local squire’s once ne’er-do-well son, returned in triumph from a salutary (and apparently rather financially rewarding) sojourn in the Americas. 

It was a tale of instant liking and of clandestine meetings with which Sean could fully sympathise, if he could never have suspected such of Hestia; there was obviously far more to her than ever he had been permitted to see. That being so, and in light of her true attachment to the _nobody_ , he rather thought she would anticipate with joy her removal—hard upon the wedding breakfast, it seemed—across the ocean to a new life as mistress in a home of her own.

Sean's recollection of the remainder of his visit was superficial in the extreme. He did remember agreeing not to reveal his knowledge of the intended marriage until Lady Rathesay’s plans should come to fruition. But what he truly retained was the knowledge of his own freedom to pursue the love of his Aliena. 

That, and the fact that Hestia was not, and nor would she ever be, engaged to be married to Sir Elijah Wood. [](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	10. In Which a Precious Proxy...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the TENTH
> 
> _In which a Precious Proxy is Offered, Rejected and Received_  
>  _—with Kisses…_  
> 

His lordship had prided himself always upon being a rational man, much given to the examination of all sides of a proposition before arriving at opinion or conclusion thereupon. Even then, he preferred to remain open to further consideration of the subject, should new evidence come to light. He held his convictions firmly but with due regard for intelligent examination.

His confusion was therefore the greater when he found himself to have fallen in love _à corps perdu_ —on the slightest of acquaintanceship and the minimum of knowledge as to his beloved’s true name, abode, position in life or, indeed, her intention. 

Adrift on this sea of so many uncertainties all he could hold to was the beauty of her person, the softness of her lips, the quickness of her mind—and his own overwhelming need for her. It needed a brave effort to attempt the mystery that was his Aliena.

He was almost sure she was not a member of the _ton_ for he could not discover her there, and had wondered if she were a dependant of some kind—a governess, perhaps. And yet if that were so, how came she by her velvets, silks and laces—expensive fabrics all—and her jewelled mask? They fitted her to perfection and she wore them as one to whom such riches were neither strange nor unfamiliar. 

On the heels of that thought had come another—briefly considered and instantly rejected—that she may be already married. That she may be trapped in a loveless marriage, as Sean could so easily have been had Hestia not rejected his suit in favour of another; had he not met his Aliena. But that would indicate a deceit far beyond anything he could believe of her. Whatever subterfuge was involved here—as there must, of course, be some—he knew she would not break such solemn vows in so underhand a way. 

Vauxhall was as noted for its freedoms as its whores; there were many—female and male alike, unsatisfied with in their everyday lives—who came seeking casual liaison from behind the protective liberty of a mask. Any and every enjoyment could be found here, from discreet flirtation to carnal pleasure, yet Sean believed his Aliena to have sought the former alone—and only a brief surge of jealousy wondered if she met others here, still. He dismissed the notion as quickly. It may have been true before they met, but no longer; he needed no telling.

Perhaps she was a cit—the daughter of a wealthy merchant? He could not readily believe it and still would not give a fig were it truth. Whatever her background, she would grace the position of his Countess as fittingly as any woman he had met, within or without the members of the _ton_. More importantly than that, he wanted— _needed_ —to share his life with her, for she stimulated him mind and body alike. Her personality, her intelligence, must surely delight Mama, too—doubly so, had she believed her only son might wed one such as Hestia.

Sean knew beyond any question that he loved now as he had always wished, and knew himself loved in return. No practised art lay in the kisses he received—they surely came as directly from the heart as did his own. 

This being indisputably so, logic could be applied once again. He wished never to be parted from his Aliena; there was therefore but one course of action to be taken. As soon as another of the precious letters arrived, arranging a further meeting, Sean strode decisively to retrieve the erstwhile book of sermons. He unlocked the safe and brought out the slightly shabby leather case that contained the Heart of Ciara. No hesitation slowed his actions this time. His lordship had not the slightest doubt that he was about to become the happiest man in London.

As the coach rattled its way across the bridge toward Vauxhall, however, all such comforting certainty slipped away. He clasped and unclasped his hands, glanced repeatedly through the window without ever recognising a single landmark. He tried in vain to make out how far they had come, how far was yet to go, patting nervously the while at what lay concealed in the pocket at his breast. 

He had rejected already the formal, age-old ritual of words that should accompany the offering of this token of his heart. For Aliena he wanted a request more intimate, more personal, than that. Instead, myriad permutations of the question he would ask jostled for precedence within his mind. He tested each one briefly, casting it aside in favour of the next— _more persuasive?_ —and the next— _more convincing?_ —and the next— _more heartfelt?_

It was inevitable that he should arrive far too early at their trysting place, and for a moment he was truly dismayed, thinking she would not come at all. He concealed himself within the temple as a group of revellers passed by, still searching his mind for the words that might best persuade her to accept him—wanting to be hers as fully as he had accepted her as his own.

The Diana fountain was ringed by a host of coloured lanterns. Water cascaded gently from the quiver upraised in her hand, catching at every gleam of light as it sparkled from each bowl to the wider one beneath. Sean gazed past it to the illuminated walk beyond and yet, as ever, Aliena appeared from out of darkness between one blink of his gaze and the next.

For a moment he only watched, waiting until she dismissed the masked majordomo who followed her always, until he bowed and withdrew. Not far, Sean knew. At none of their meetings had they ever been truly alone. Sean would have honoured her safety in his company even without so strange a chaperon, but he knew the trust that Aliena must place in this huge man. 

He had once entertained a fleeting notion that here was one from whom he might enquire of her identity. He suppressed it instantly, for to do so would be to compromise both of them. Nor had he ever attempted to follow her to her home. She would reveal herself to him in her own time—or not.

And now that he came to it at last, Sean could remember nothing of the pleas he had rehearsed. Each well-turned phrase, each eloquent word of every request he might have made—all were melted into nothing before the welcome in her smile as he drew near. Caught helpless on the cusp between joy and despair, he simply took the jewel case from his pocket and held it out.

‘This is for you, if you will take it of me.’

A pause of stillness and of silence—and he knew his mistake already.

‘I am no lightskirt, my lord. You should know by now that _I_ am not to be bought with _baubles_!’ The rejection was cold, the box pushed back at him.

‘It is neither bribe nor bauble, and I would never ask such a thing of you,’ he said, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. ‘It is a pledge. The Heart of Ciara has been worn by the chosen bride of my family's heir for years uncounted, and I offer it to you.’

‘Oh.’ Pale fingers trembled over dark velvet, revealing a sudden coruscation of blue, and the light of hidden fire. No less blue, no less dazzling through their liquid sheen, were the eyes raised now to Sean’s. ‘I—No.’

He swallowed. ‘I hoped that you had more regard for me than that.’

‘I—I have, you must know that I have! But I cannot accept this.’

‘Take it,’ Sean said. ‘I shall never love another as I love you and I will not wed if I cannot wed you.’ He had not before realised that, yet he knew it for truth here and now. ‘Take it, please?’

The lid had fallen shut over velvet and fire alike, and the glitter now was jewelled all on lashes of black lace. 'No, my lord,' was the lightest of whispers to cut so deep.

Opening the box once more he raised the necklace, releasing its clasp to let the heavy stone swing freely on the loop of delicate silver links between his hands. Moonlight and lamplight glowed clear within the fabled sapphire heart, catching and dancing in the white-fire fringe of flawless diamond. And the ritual of rejected words was suddenly perfect for the solemn vow he wished so much to make.

‘Within this precious jewel lie the darkness of night and the light of moon and star. I would share with thee all the days of my life both the light and the darkness together. To thee I offer the Heart of Ciara in token of a true heart already given—hoping only that I may receive thine in return.’

An eternity of seconds passed with neither movement nor answer, then wayward curls dipped forward hesitantly. Sean pushed aside the domino’s hood and forced himself to keep his fingers from the temptation of a milk-white neck; to ignore the gentle hint of a perfume he still could not name but whose lightest breath would forever evoke this moment in which his own heart was forever pledged. He fumbled the clasp twice before he achieved it and could step back.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=PreciousProxy.jpg)

One hand came up slowly to cover the jewel, but the tear-shimmered gaze remained upon Sean’s face.

He waited, fingers curled into fists at his sides. He knew better than to clutch, for that way he could only lose—Aliena would give herself freely, or not at all. ‘If you can grant me nothing in return, then so be it.’ He closed his eyes, knowing that there was no more that he could do, no more that he could offer, should she leave him as always she had done before.

Warm lips glided over his cheek, a softly damp kiss-trail that wound softly, unhurriedly, toward his mouth. The kiss itself began as sweet as any they had shared, but then a tongue explored the seam of his lips. Sean was stunned at the tease beneath his upper lip and opened to the intrusion without thought, only a rush of pure desire. The tongue pushed in, flickered against his and withdrew in clear invitation. 

He followed and teased in his turn, as fingers wove and slid through his hair, and a breathy moan became the sweetest thing he had ever heard. He brought up his arms to cradle this precious body within them, holding ever tighter to concentrate upon that sound—orchestrating it with his tongue, finding places that took it to a whimper, high and sharp, and others that seemed to bring it so deep that he could feel the slim figure tremble in the force of its escape. 

But as suddenly, it was over. The fingers left his hair, hands slipping down to cup his face, thumbs brushing gently over lips that tingled from the force of their kisses.

‘I love you, my—Sean. If ever I were to marry a man it would be you.’ 

A sound like a choked laugh—or a stifled sob—and Sean was indeed alone.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	11. In which Works of Art are Displayed...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the ELEVENTH
> 
> _In which Works of Art are Displayed and the Benefits of Education Extolled;_   
>  _Artistry of an Entirely Different Kind Occurs, a Longing is Revealed_   
>  _and an Abstraction Goes Temporarily Undetected_

_The_ morning engagement of the Season was acknowledged to be a visit to The Royal Academy, which this year had achieved a _coup_ not to be equalled by its rivals for the patronage of the _ton_. 

Rarely had the nation’s art lovers been blessed with the opportunity to view at one time so many of the country's most famous works of art. The old and revered were here displayed alongside the newly celebrated—all available on generous loan from their rightful owners. Her Majesty had been particularly gracious at the Opening Reception to all those who had offered their heirlooms to be here displayed—and only marginally less so to those of her subjects whose acquisitions had come about rather by financial arrangement than through long-term familial possession or personal commission.

A visit was, therefore, _quite_ unexceptionable—even for schoolroom parties, since the one or two works of a more _risqué_ nature were ensconced in a private room to which admission was strictly regulated. A carefully nurtured rumour, that regular attendance was proved to be of _inestimable_ benefit to the intellect, had rendered the venue almost _de rigueur_ ; indeed, a good many of the patrons were wont to return on at least a weekly basis. 

There were those, indeed, who proclaimed their interest in and devotion to the world of art to be so abidingly deep that they could barely survive a day or three without sight of a particular work from the hand of Mr Reynolds, M. Watteau or the late Signor Canal. 

The breadth of subject matter here on display was most gratifyingly extensive. Representations of an illustrious hero in his hour of triumph would mollify the youth brought here against his will, and even answer for a while the longing for such adventure of his own; whilst his sisters may well sigh for so gallant a swain. The delicate sensibilities of the ladies were soothed by the comfortingly recognisable: groups and portraits from the very _best_ of families, and by pastoral representations of the idyllic persuasion. Sporting gentlemen—in particular the fraternity of equine fanciers—discovered their interests to be especially well-served in a cluster of works portraying notable sires and a number of race winners. Included were several by Mr Stubbs, with Mr Wootton’s _Godolphin Arabian_ held to be the jewel of them all.

The venue was itself open and spacious, with generous provision for the comfort of visitors. Elegant sofas were arranged for the accommodation of those overcome by the splendours on display. Artfully situated, these gave due regard to where best their occupants may best see—and be seen. 

Other seating—in less prominent locations, perhaps, but whose design promised greater comfort—was observed to attract the attentions of not a few gentlemen escorts, whose appreciation thereof might extend even to the point of somnolence. Still others occupied shadowed nooks, slightly retired from the bustle of well-populated rooms, and were especially well-favoured by the more romantically inclined (and less rigorously chaperoned) of the younger set.

These pleasure-seeking visitors would scarcely have recognised their surroundings had they been present on one evening in particular—though, of course, one might equally say upon any evening at all. Such was the expense of candles that the doors were quite firmly closed to visitors in the late afternoon, when shadows gathered to hinder viewing. 

Upon this particular evening, the lower floors of the gallery were as usual unrelievedly dark, their shutters resolutely fastened against the predation of opportunist thieves. The good offices of a dark lantern would be found necessary merely to verify the relative positions of doorway and staircase—setting aside any search that may be made for an individual work hanging there upon the walls. On the upper floors, however, the windows were left unshuttered, being considered quite secure for being high above the ground. Into these galleries, moonlight flowed so generously that a true connoisseur was yet able to appreciate the attractions on view. 

And _this_ visitor had already returned most assiduously to view—and to prattle ingenuously over—the treasures on display; gaining thus a possibly better idea of the title, provenance, value, location and ease of removal of all of the more interesting works than had the chief curator. But the present visit was conducted in a dedicated silence, and for it no monetary fee had been paid—entry having been effected at the expense of an unusually co-operative lock on one of the glazed doors that opened onto a third floor balcony.

A shape that may have been fashioned from darkness had scaled the outer façade, taking every advantage of the architect’s _penchant_ for the application of decorative stonework, and deftly employing unseen projections where a stretch of wall was seemingly unbroken. So perfectly, silently sleek was it, that it might have been thought naked of the least of clothing, but that it slipped through shadow _like_ shadow with never a gleam of reflection from shoulder or hip or thigh. Only a meeting face-to-face would reveal the contrast of a rosy mouth above the hint of a pale, determined jaw—sapphire eyes glimmering behind the sooty mask, roundly giving the lie to any such fancy.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Temptation.jpg)

Early reconnaissance now proved its worth, as the thief moved with surety and despatch from floor to floor, garnering a limited yet extremely discriminating haul. At one point only was there an indecisive halt—almost a dither—before a small but arresting work by a largely unknown artist, whose ability to capture childhood in watercolour over chalks and pencil had here reached zenith.

The lantern’s cautious beam revealed a tousled imp—obviously having escaped the custody of his mentors—who had frolicked himself into an enviable state of grubbiness before falling asleep, just where the sun might kiss tumbled locks and gild the downy curve of cheek, pillowed there upon the cool green moss.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=BirthdaySeanframed.jpg)

A concealing glove fell unnoticed to the floor as one white hand was raised to that smooth cheek, restraining itself from a gentle stroke at the last. A sigh, and the shadow retreated without its final prize, returning to the upper floor and an exit which proved as smoothly unobtrusive as the arrival. There were soon no other traces of intrusion than four neatly vacated picture frames; a delicately penned and colourfully decorated calling card, positioned where the gratitude it conveyed could not possibly be overlooked; and one fingerless glove of the very finest black leather—for unaccountably its owner did not return to claim it.

In recognition of the artistic importance (and monetary value) of the Exhibition, a second watch–box—additional to the one in the adjacent Square—had been prominently placed, directly opposite the front entrance to the Academy. The guardian of the nation’s treasures therein was not to be seen above the regulation half-door, however, and the mandatory lack of seating had proved no hindrance to his slumbers. Very likely he thought himself safe from observation, so deep into the night. In this belief he was most sadly mistaken. 

Mere minutes after the departure of the shadowy thief from the premises so negligently protected, a passing figure—snugly cloaked, ruffled skirts halting with the faintest swish around neat ankles—paused to peer within. An elegant nose wrinkled at the generous aroma of spirits which gave some clue to the man’s dereliction of duty; but even that was a source of satisfaction to one who had provided—and skilfully dosed—the bottle now lying three-fourths empty by the sprawling sleeper’s hand.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	12. In Which His Lordship is by turns...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the TWELFTH
> 
>  
> 
> _In which his Lordship is by Turns Embarrassed, Wounded and Relieved;_  
>  _Expeditious, Contemplative and Highly Amused;_  
>  _also, Unaccountably Reassured_  
> 

One entire side of the ballroom at Charnley House comprised numerous pairs of glazed doors, separated by mirrored pillars and the luxuriant leaves of voluminous potted plants. The room was remarkably warm, despite each door standing wide to catch the least stray movement of air. There were more basic aromas upon the air to mingle with the perfumes of the East—or even of the West End—and more than one damsel glowed rather more than was proper for a young lady. Some of the gentlemen, indeed, might have been said to have passed the point of human perspiration and ventured into territory more properly the province of the equine. 

The evening’s hostess, Lady Charnley, had anticipated the problem, lavishly bedecking the colonnades of her extensive terrace with coloured lanterns to tempt her guests with the promise of cooler air, where they might appreciate the manicured gardens, the walks and spinneys and secluded nooks beyond. Unseen but close at hand, musicians attempted with little success to compete with the almost raucous sound of voices. Their turn would come, for dancing would shortly take place upon the lawns. The diligent chaperone who sought to maintain a proper vigilance over her charge would clearly then find her duties rather more taxing than usual.

Further lanterns adorned the avenue of trees stretching toward an elegant gazebo, where a most pleasant surprise—and a positive _coup_ on the part of her ladyship—awaited the guests. Signor Negri had been persuaded to forsake _The Pot and Pineapple_ for this single evening in order to put his undoubted expertise in the matter of flavoured ices at the disposal, and for the delectation, of the company. Provided that the lurking thunderstorm held off—out-riders of cloud already obliterated each star that lay to northward, the rumbled threat being as yet still sufficiently distant—then the occasion seemed destined to be numbered amongst the successes of the Season.

‘I _told_ Mama that she would regret it,’ pronounced the Lady Elizabeth Selkirk, her tone a mix of satisfaction and true concern, ‘but she simply would not listen!’ 

From her seat amongst the chaperones, she had signalled to her brother a desire to discuss the matter just as soon as he set foot inside the ballroom. His lordship wished once again that he might have feigned ignorance of that imperious summons. His own inclination, as always of late, was to traverse the entire room—and, tonight, perhaps also the gardens beyond— casual-seeming though in fact intent upon his unending search for Aliena. 

‘The portrait is hers to do with as she pleases,’ he pointed out with admirable restraint, for this was far from the first time he had heard her complaint. ‘If it were not, it would never have been there in the first place! And she is not _regretting_ it, for it has _not,_ in fact, been stolen.’

‘Oh, it simply does not bear thinking about—such a _delightful_ painting!’ gushed a lady of extremely uncertain age, of whom his lordship knew only that her charge was as young and as giggly as his niece Lavinia, whose greatest friend she appeared to be. He had found it politic, through an ongoing succession of nieces, to be no more than distantly polite to their friends; they having an unfortunate tendency, otherwise, to imagine themselves into girlish passions he neither invited nor even recognised until it was too late.

‘You really were a most _engaging_ infant, my lord!’ another of the women tittered from behind her fan, to a positive sea of nods and a refined chorus of agreement.

Yet again, Sean forced an agreeable platitude to take precedence over the blistering retort that had gathered in vehemence with every single person who uttered some variation upon those words today.

Wherever he had ventured, the sole topic for discussion had been the Academy’s loss. It seemed, moreover, that almost every female he encountered had not merely visited the exhibition but had done so sufficiently often to retain a picture perfect memory of his younger self as depicted there. Each of them had heard of the discovery of a glove upon the floor beneath, and found a delicious _frisson_ brought to the discussion by the knowledge of how very near his lordship’s likeness too had been to vanishing, never more to be seen—at least by its rightful owner.

The investigating authorities disclosed that the glove must have been left by one of the thieves, the gallery floors having been thoroughly swept at the close of business for the day. Though there was indeed some question, from its quality, of it too having been previously stolen. The inference drawn from its location was quite naturally that his lordship’s portrait would have been the next to suffer the indignity of removal—probably as one with many further works—had not the active vigilance of the watchman on his round disturbed the perpetrators as they went about their nefarious activities.

When, many months earlier, the Academy submitted a polite request for a contribution to the forthcoming exhibition, Mama was visiting her family in England. She swept aside all notion of loaning any of the works of the Masters, and positively insisted that this single portrait should represent the extensive collection of the Earls of Astin. It was one of a very few works to survive its painter, a young protégé of the late Earl and his Countess, who had succumbed to a distressing fever before his talent could come to its fruition.

His lordship escaped the embarrassing ordeal at last with an offer to acquire ices in various flavours, _glace de muscadine_ or _du citron_ being held (at interminable length) to be the most refreshing on so oppressive an evening. He had believed himself relatively safe this evening from familial interference, with Hestia apparently dancing attendance on her grandmama elsewhere. 

It was disconcerting, therefore to discover not only Elizabeth but also Marianne present, the latter being thankfully uninvolved in the ongoing discussion. Between the two, and unless he were wary, he may yet be inveigled into listening—he hoped in rather more privacy than this—to further less-than-subtle hints on marriage and the happiness to be found therein, with barely-veiled allusions to Dear Hestia. It seemed positively unjust that he should find himself in possession of the most perfect rebuttal, and bound by his given word not to employ it.

Their pronouncements would be no longer merely uncomfortable—they must be sharply wounding now that Aliena had refused his heart. An empty sennight had passed since he offered it, and Sean had begun to doubt he would ever see her again. 

Threading his way around the room—his search no less careful yet as much in vain as ever—he negotiated the leaves of an over-exuberant palm to reach the outer doors at last. He came to an abrupt halt then, as a dangling frond seemed suddenly shot through with blue. For a moment everything appeared somehow to pause. The heat was of little account, and the twinkle of coloured lights blurred into the shadows beyond; the clamour of well-bred voices and the musicians’ efforts against them faded all into the far away grumble of approaching storm—as green-filtered blue eyes widened in surprise on meeting his.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Windows-Frond.jpg)

Then the gaze narrowed, its focus changing, the colour darkening—and Sean was completely unprepared to know himself cut—the cut direct!—as Sir Elijah Wood elevated his chin and turned deliberately away into the darkness of the gardens.

There was scarce a moment to wonder that he should feel so sharply, unaccountably wounded—by a put-down he was at a loss to explain—before he was jostled aside in passing by the one who was angry indeed for his being the intended recipient of that insult.

‘You shall pay for that, _boy_ , baronet or no!’ was a snarl no less venomous for being almost inaudible as Lord Robert Vernon pushed past, heedlessly blind, an apology tossed over his shoulder. 

A response of any kind would have been completely wasted, since the man was already half way to the card-room, where strong spirits were probably to be found. Sean stood a moment, puzzling at his own reaction to the small incident, for he could no more fathom his relief—that Vernon and not he should be the object of the contempt explicit in that scathing gesture—than the unexpected hurt. He neither wanted nor valued approval from such a source. Why then should the incivility have touched him at all? 

It surprised him that the baronet should have grounds already for such absolute disdain. Were Vernon’s proclivities now so widely, if still covertly, known—following an absence of quite several years—that even a newly arrived member of the _ton_ would quickly deduce their nature? If that were so, this cut argued greater sensibility on the part of the baronet than might have been looked for. But in light of the vindictive nature of his relative, the best Sean could hope was that Sir Elijah should contrive to steer clear of whatever retribution his lordship may have in mind.

He continued across the terrace—finding the air outside to be only slightly cooler and somehow even more oppressive—and along the walk to the gazebo. Obtaining the ices proved a time-consuming occupation fraught with boredom. He despatched them, at last, in the hands of one of her ladyship’s many liveried servants, and was seriously considering either a bolt into the card-room himself, or perhaps away home entirely, before the storm should break. 

Alas, he had been unwise enough to follow the path the servant threaded through the press of bodies, and caught a stern glare from Elizabeth. Without need for words, she reminded him of his promise to lead out his niece—for the musicians had struck up for dancing at last and the first set was indeed beginning to form. He gave her a small, obedient nod as Lavinia rapidly consumed her small dish of _glace du citron_ in anticipation of the treat. Then Sean bowed, very much in the grand manner yet with a reassuring smile, and invited her to permit him the honour of the dance. Her mama’s machinations were, after all, none of her doing and he was quite fond of this least striking but most practical of his many young relatives.

It seemed, however, that Elizabeth had impressed too well upon her daughter a sensibility of the ridiculous accolade such an invitation apparently conveyed. Lavinia’s usual quiet commonsense dissolved into a nervously giggled assent, scarcely competing with the sudden growl of thunder, far closer at hand than anyone had expected. She stifled an anxious cry and accompanied him bravely out onto the lawns. 

Despite his every effort to put her at her ease, either the continuing threat from the skies or the identity of her partner reduced her usually sensible conversation to single whispered syllables. Whichever it was had also a most deleterious effect upon her dancing, for several times she stumbled and more than once she set her foot upon his with a hasty apology. He could not but remember the lightness of his Aliena’s step, almost floating upon the music, such grace and elegance in her every movement as was rarely seen— 

His musing was lost to an unexpectedly cold breeze that sprang up to play skittishly in the skirts of all the dancing damsels, its rustle even a trifle threatening through the trees around them. Sean recognised it as the immediate harbinger of a deluge. It was already too late to escape the storm entirely, but he and his partner were more fortunate than most in that they had reached the foot of the dance—and were therefore closest to the terrace—in the moment before it broke. 

Without ceremony he whisked Lavinia, not into the next figure, but inexorably toward the open doors. For a second or two she was startled. With the remainder of the company she had thought only to welcome that breath of cool relief from such enervating heat. Then, even as the closing measures of the dance still played, the fury of the storm crashed loudly and remorselessly upon them. Unrelenting rain poured down at once, in large drops almost heavy enough to hurt. The music ceased with a startled wail as musicians scrambled to protect their precious instruments. 

In an instant the thin muslins of the shrieking maidens were drenched quite through. Shocked chaperones gathered just within the doors, calling in haste for servants to collect shawls which might conceal at least some of the charms so transparently revealed. The gentlemen dancers attempted—eyes mostly averted—to bring their partners rapidly to safety, and Sean handed Lavinia back to her mother with great relief. 

There was then, of course, a general exodus, everyone making for the grand entrance hall at once, with a loud calling for carriages from all directions. It seemed to his lordship that this would be even more confused than the commotion usual to a large number of people—be they never so well-bred—all attempting to achieve exit at the same time. 

He resolved not to allow himself to be caught up in it. Elizabeth, had, after all, been accompanied here by Selkirk himself, and he should surely leave the card-room and look to his own family. Once he caught a glimpse of the tall form and distinctively thinning, gingery pate that signalled his brother-in-law, Sean left the scene without further qualm. Of Marianne there was no sign, but Sean had faith in her eldest son to provide for her comfort. William was the only one of his nephews who might justly be described as prosily precise and far too old for his age. That he was also the only one never to have called upon his uncle for aid in difficult circumstances somehow failed to endear him to Sean quite as much as may have been supposed. 

By contrast with the hubbub in the hall, the ballroom was strangely quiet—abandoned and almost forlorn as he stepped back within. Chairs had been overturned, glasses set down all at random, the occasional shawl or reticule misplaced. The servants had mostly dispersed to assist where the crowd was thickest but one wandered past Sean, seeming rather bewildered by the sudden lack of custom for the champagne on the tray he carried. He seemed quite relieved when Sean helped himself to a glass, disappearing then in the direction of the voices.

Sean took his glass to stand inside one of the open doors, enjoying the cooler air that now spilled within, yet safely beyond the spray of rain that hammered so energetically upon my lady’s terrace. It was falling much too hard and too close to be readily absorbed by the parched ground, and small streams had begun to form. The main walk was already a young river. Thunder rolled insistently to and fro directly overhead and lightning sparked again and again, flickering her ladyship’s once immaculate garden in and out of view. 

The gaily coloured lanterns, strung so decoratively along the terrace, had been extinguished from the first, but out of the darkness at the far end of the walk, a wider patch of light still glowed. Not a few of the guests had taken refuge there, with Signor Negri and his staff beneath the roof of the gazebo. It was fortunately a more solid structure than these were often found to be. Its open sides, however, must surely result in those sheltering at its very edges being so splashed as to be scarcely better off than when outside. 

From time to time Sean’s quiet reverie was interrupted as a couple burst through one of the many other pairs of doors that stood open to the weather until the servants should remember the task. The drenched damsel shivered from both cold and fright beneath the jacket of her swain, who must shiver on his own account in saturated waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Presumably they had admitted at last that the cover seemingly afforded by a tree—selected with nothing further in mind than a few snatched moments of delicious seclusion—could not long withstand so torrential a downpour. They paused only to realise their safe arrival, then hurried off in search of relief elsewhere. 

But then, a single figure made directly for the door by which his lordship stood calmly sipping his champagne. Sean stepped out of its path as, head down, blindly seeking shelter, white façade dissolving into runnels and rain dripping remorselessly from every stitch of his clothing, Sir Elijah Wood entered without his usual languid mince,—indeed at a positively athletic run. 

Dancing pumps a-squelch, he skidded to a halt on the wet and slippery floor. With a rueful exclamation he produced a supremely elegant scrap of cambric and lace, and dabbed it gingerly across his eyes. It was barely equal to the task, though the obvious sting must surely be lessened. His other hand made to sweep the sad and sopping wig from his head. At the last moment, however, he paused and looked around. When he realised that he was not, in fact, alone in the quiet room, and that Sean stood there by the window regarding him appraisingly, he slowly lowered the hand.

For a second or two the only sound between the insistent rolls of thunder and the drumming of rain beyond the open doors, was the steady, punctuating _drip-drip_ close at hand from this drench-wet apparition. 

Then Sean could control the impulse no longer, and he let loose a shout of laughter. The man stiffened as if to take offence, then caught sight of himself in one of the many mirrored pillars. He did not then laugh aloud, but relaxed a little; his lips may even have twitched with the smile he was suppressing.

‘I beg your pardon, most sincerely!’ Sean gasped, when he regained sufficient breath.

‘It is I who should beg yours,’ the fop returned, his voice pitched as high as ever but with a laugh of its own quite definitely lurking, ‘for daring to appear in public _en tel désordre_!’

His bow, however, had all the elegance of a man in court dress, completely and correctly _point de vice_ , as he excused himself and strode away—toward the servants’ entrance, Sean noted and presumed a desire to avoid further ridicule.

But Sir Elijah had a sense of humour, it seemed. He could find amusement, not only in his personal discomfort, but even in the probable ruin of his exquisite clothes and precious wig. It was not a thing Sean would ever have looked for behind the idiotic façade that was presented to the _ton_ , and he found it obscurely reassuring.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	13. In Which May be Found an Unexpected Discovery...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the THIRTEENTH
> 
>  
> 
> _In Which May be Found an Unexpected Discovery and a Misconception;_  
>  _a Much-desired Reunion, and a Kiss;_  
>  _an Unpalatable Revelation—and a Challenge…_  
> 

His lordship found himself at Angelo’s Academy of Fencing considerably in advance of the hour for his engagement with Will. Truth to tell, neither rest nor sleep came easily of late. His friend, however, was very little given to early rising, and Sean’s expectation of finding him here as yet was small indeed. 

No matter, he would occupy his time usefully enough in observing the skills of others, if need be, but still he enquired of a passing servant as to the whereabouts, if any, of Viscount Royde. The man—not one whom Sean recognised—seemed rather at a loss, venturing the timid opinion that his lordship may indeed be here already, though if that were the case he really could not say where he might be found. With a hasty bow, he took a rapid escape leaving Sean to discover either his elusive friend, or an alternate amusement, for himself. 

Shaking his head—untrained staff could be the very devil!—he began to mount the stairs, then paused, conscious as ever of being watched. The usual gaggle of pages was gathered below in the stairwell, talking and laughing in whispers or playing at taws as they awaited their masters. One of the smaller lads—notable mostly for untamed hair the colour of flame and ears into which he may one day grow—was standing aside to stare up at him. When he realised he was himself observed, he ducked his head. Sean shook his, again, and proceeded upward. 

He began his search by cracking open one of the pair of doors to his right. The room, bounded by windows on two of its sides, was flooded as always with a more than reasonable allowance of late morning sunshine. The vagaries of light and shade thus created must tax the skill and concentration of even the best of fencers. 

Many patrons of the establishment lacked either the experience or the expertise necessary to contend under such conditions, and so it was that this—despite being one of the most spacious of Angelo’s rooms—was less used than any other. Indeed, the truly proficient tended in passing to exaggerate its difficulties. It was a useful way of ensuring that this one at least of the over-subscribed salons would be available for their use at almost any hour—as Sean hoped for himself and Will later today.

He had heard no sound as of a bout in progress, or of occupancy at all. He was thus unprepared, as he peered within, for the figure silhouetted dark against the dazzle from the window by which it stood—still less for the radiance of familiar fire at its hands.

Polite apology for his intrusion completely forgotten, he knew no other thought than fury at sight of the Heart of Ciara, fondled here so casually between the fingers of this unknown man. Retaining enough sense to kick the door firmly shut behind him, lest so private an affair become matter for any passing scandalmonger, he rushed forward to snatch back the jewel. The figure turned hastily to confront the echoing slam just as Sean’s eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light—and there was then not the slightest doubt as to its identity.

Sir Elijah Wood was instantly recognisable—all paint and padded shoulders, extravagant cuffs and blatant stripes —despite the wearing of one of his less ridiculous wigs; a style so _outré_ positively demanded recognition. The usual preposterous neckcloth, however, was quite undone and hanging loose. Sean could not doubt—from the lingering warmth in stone and chain alike—that the Heart of Ciara was only that instant removed from beneath its folds. How dare he? How _dare_ this—this simpering simpleton wear the pledge of Sean’s own heart?

Anger rose and swelled within him, somehow fiercer for the idiot’s intention seemingly to fight here—here, where the very _highest_ level of skill was needed to prevail! It was all of a piece with his presumption and flaunting and—and—

Sean found himself quite literally quivering with suppressed rage, so that the fop stepped hastily beyond reach. Nothing could register upon that totally blank countenance, of course, but Sean saw with satisfaction the trace of alarm that showed distinctly in his eyes.

‘Where did you get this?’ He demanded furiously, as soon as he could trust himself to lash out in words alone. 

‘I—I won it at cards.’ The initial wariness vanished as he added—his voice a-smirk as his face could not, ‘Its owner staked it readily enough.’

For a single moment only, Sean was struck to the heart—that Aliena would hold his love so lightly—before faith in his beloved assured him that the claim was entirely false. 

‘You lie, sir, damn you!’

The fop hesitated— _seeking a more plausible untruth_ , Sean fumed—before admitting to what Sean already knew.

‘I do indeed, my lord,’ he said, quite calm now and brazenly so, in Sean’s opinion. ‘You are perfectly correct, and I tender my sincere apologies. However, truth is that I was given it, and it is mine to do with as I wish. You will return it to me, if you please, for it has a certain… ’ he paused, one hand extended, tone totally cynical to Sean’s ears, ‘…a certain _sentimental_ value.’

‘No,’ Sean said. ‘She never would—you are still lying.’ Gods, if this simpering fool had harmed so much as a hair of her head…

‘Am I?’

‘Of course!’

Sir Elijah’s manner changed suddenly and he seemed to brace himself on an indrawn breath. ‘It is mine and it was freely given. I can think of but one way I may prove that to you.’ He raised his head and looked a challenge.

Sean frowned. ‘Which is?’ He realised that the voice was at complete variance now with the figure of the painted fop before him. The customary, high-pitched idiocy of the man had calmed to a serious, almost familiar tone.

‘You wish me to prove it to you?’

‘You cannot.’

‘I can. Do you wish me to?’

‘I do. I need to know the truth.’

‘This may be a truth you will find… unpalatable.’

‘Nevertheless, if it _is_ the truth, then I will have it of you.’

‘Very well.’ The fop sighed deeply. ‘Be pleased to close your eyes, my lord,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Whatever else Sean had expected, it was not this.

‘Close your eyes,’ he repeated, ‘and keep them so until I say you may open them.’

Though unsure why, Sean obeyed, and waited. A sudden awareness of sound was some compensation for the lack of sight, as noises unnoticed before now seemed louder and even a little intrusive. There were voices from other parts of the academy, of course, above the ongoing clash of blades, and footsteps sounded on the staircase—all muffled by distance and the doors between. Faintly, through the windows from the street below came the sharp, extended clang of many hooves, the dry rattle of wheels over cobblestone and a confused blur of street vendors calling their wares.

But no matter how hard he listened, he could discover no sound that told more clearly of the fop’s intention here. There was no indication of this _proof_ he would provide, except perhaps for quieter movement, close to hand. Something—cloth?—rustled and there was a susurration like—what? Laces being shaken out? 

It struck Sean then that he was placing a deal of faith in the word of this scoundrel; but whatever was afoot here, he accepted him to be at least an honourable scoundrel who would take no unfair advantage whilst his adversary was held defenceless at his word. 

In this belief, he was both right—and so very wrong.

Cool fingers slid over his face. Before he could protest, his lips were taken in a gentle kiss, and he knew at once that here, somehow, was his lost love, his Aliena. The temptation to open his eyes, to see her again, was almost unbearable, but somehow he kept faith with his unspoken promise. Instead, he made to take her in his arms. 

‘Do not touch me or I must leave,’ was murmured into his mouth, in the soft and husky tones that whispered nightly through his dreams. Sean’s hands dropped instantly to his sides, curling into fists against his need to hold her close. It was penance indeed not to do so, but if she left him now it would be a torture too great to be borne.

All of his questions—who was she, where had she been, how came she here and why would she not marry him; what had the fop to do with this, and why had she allowed him to take the pledge of Sean's love?—all faded into the magic of her lips upon his.

He was suddenly light-headed in the relief of knowing her kiss once more—and was it regret he tasted here beneath the well-remembered sweetness? Surely she had mourned his loss as he mourned hers? Surely she would have changed her mind about never marrying? ’Twas a foolish, maidenly notion and one he was certain she may be brought to alter, given time and further such loving, dizzying kisses as these. And this time he would use all means short of true restraint to keep her with him, for he could not allow her to escape him again.

It lingered on most wonderfully, this kiss to echo the desperation of the very last that they had shared. Slowly—so very slowly—it relinquished fierce passion and melted into light and clinging touches of lip and tongue. But the need of which it told then was no less for the unhurried fade to its regretful, inevitable end.

‘Do you believe that I love you, my—Sean?’ was a quiet whisper, voice catching as she laid her forehead softly to his. Not waiting for his answer, she pulled away a little with a sigh.

‘How can I not, my love? I hope only that my kiss speaks as faithfully to you.’ Sean leaned forward, hoping once more to find the one that he adored. His lips met with those same cool fingers alone, at first laid soft to hush his protest at their loss, then delicately defining each contour of his mouth—as he had done on finding her again, that memorable night at Vauxhall. 

But this—this was somehow a parting gesture, and already redolent of aching loss to come…

Desperate to detain her, wanting— _needing_ —for her to acknowledge and return his desire for her to be his own, he flickered out his tongue-tip—a restrained taste to the pad of her thumb, a plea without words. Her touch stilled and she shivered beneath the tentative caress.

‘Oh, yes, I know that you love me now. But not—’ one last gentle trace of fingers down his face—light as breath yet infinitely more potent in their effect upon him—and Sean was released, ‘—not, I think, _now_. Open your eyes, my lord.’

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Revelation2.jpg)

Sean’s protest at this denial of his love was stillborn on his lips.

He blinked several times, unable at first to believe what— _whom_ —he saw before him, as if the brilliant glare of light, suddenly renewed, could somehow so deceive him. But his eyes told no more than truth: that here was no Aliena—that here in front of him stood only Sir Elijah Wood; that the room was as empty of any but their two selves as ever it had been. 

The elaborate, powdered wig was cast aside, and dark curls—a little flattened by their confinement, yet fully recognisable—surrounded a white-painted face whose lips were kiss-reddened now and twisted into a wry half-smile. As he had said, here was proof incontrovertible of the one to whom his lordship had given the pledge of his heart. And unpalatable indeed.

The pain of absolute betrayal held Sean silent for several moments before his outrage could burst forth into words. ‘What—? _No!_ ’

‘Yes. I am sorry, my lord.’ The husk of her voice was still discernible as the man swallowed uncertainly. 

‘Why would you _do_ such a thing?’ Sean shook his head as though even now he might alter the image before his eyes. He clenched his fists again, this time against the anger that surged once more within him, hotter and more furious than ever. He struggled with the temptation, not to embrace, but to strike out at the perfidious wretch who kissed so sweetly and had misused his trust so cruelly. ‘Is this some kind of trick, a—a joke? An entrapment?’

‘No! What do you think I am?’ 

The indignation in that swift denial served merely to infuriate Sean further.

‘What do I think you _are_? I thought you bad enough when you seemed simply one of those painted dandies. Now I discover that you have unspeakable vices!’ He swiped the back of one hand fiercely across his mouth to remove the taint of hers—of _his_ …

‘Unspeakable vices? And just what are these _unspeakable vices_?’ The fop’s voice had sharpened with an anger of his own, it seemed.

How had he the—the sheer _effrontery_ to pretend an outrage to which _he_ had no right whatsoever? He was discovered here in a contemptible and womanish deceit and yet he showed no proper sense of shame, only this almost righteous indignation. It was all of a piece with his scandalous—his completely _unprincipled_ behaviour.

‘You are one of those bedizened trollops—what do they call them? Mollies!—who bring shame upon the estate of manhood!’

Sir Elijah’s lip curled visibly. ‘If you knew anything of the mollies—or of me—you would know that I am not one of them. How _dare_ you?’ 

For a man who could pass as a woman, he possessed a singularly masculine slap, Sean discovered now, his face stinging from the ritual gesture of challenge—or of a scorned lover. 

Sean stepped back. ‘Have the goodness to name your friends, sir!’

The sharp, strained laugh was laced with anger. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, S—my lord! Would you really wish others to know of this?’ 

‘No!’ Sharp irritation compounding his outrage now, Sean realised he had allowed fury to override discretion. ‘But I will have satisfaction of you, sir, seconds or no!’

‘I am entirely at your lordship’s service.’ The fop bowed, almost mockingly, Sean thought—and was still somehow elegant despite the ridiculous contrast of that preposterous false face surrounded by soft dark curls Sean knew too well. 

Rejecting his fingers’ sudden, traitorous recall he snapped back curtly, ‘We may easily dispense with them—in that, at least, will I trust you. The prime duty of a second is to seek a reconciliation. In this instance there can be none so their absence matters not a whit. You shall _not_ keep the jewel that you took beneath so base a pretence!’

‘I did not _take_ it! You _would_ put it on me though I told you I should not accept it!’ 

And that was truth, for Sean had ignored her demur, had bent close to breathe in that delicate, elusive perfume. Dizzied by that, by her nearness, his fingers had fumbled the catch where it lay at that beautiful, elegant nape— 

‘I was ensnared by your—your _painted deceit_!’ he retorted, his anger all the keener for the insidious tug of memory.

‘Aliena was not painted! She is— _was—_ You _lo_ —’ He bit back the word Sean knew he had been about to say—so true then, forever unneeded now. ‘She existed for you alone, my lord, and she was never painted. _I_ am painted.’ He raised his chin, seemingly proud of the shamefully duplicitous manner in which he conducted his life.

‘And that disgusts me!’

‘That is your privilege, which _I_ am perfectly entitled to ignore!’ the fop lashed back at once.

Sean stifled the furious retort that sprang into his mind—argument of any kind must be futile, he knew it. No matter how cutting the words they would be no more than a shield before his wounded pride; against the knowledge that his love had been stolen— _despoiled_ —by this—this mincing, masquerading impostor. 

For several moments there was no sound save sharp breath, the crackle of anger inaudible but clear, rending the air between them as they only stood and stared at each other. It was Sir Elijah who broke the impasse, his voice now coldly practical.

‘The sooner the better then, my lord. We may use this room should you choose steel—I believe Barn Elms to be traditional for a duel involving firearms.’

Sean nodded brusquely. ‘As you will. The—’ he paused to muster a sufficiently caustic sneer, ‘— _insult_ was mine, and so the choice is yours, I think.’ 

‘The sword, what else?’ 

The question was almost a sneer in itself, and Sean wondered much that he should choose so readily to fence—such skills being far less easily acquired than those of the pistol. But then, the man _had_ come to a fencing academy, and must be presumed to possess at least a modicum of ability—though what he should be doing in this most difficult of rooms…

‘It cannot be now, however much I may prefer it. We may trust to Angelo for complete privacy here at six on the morrow, should that prove convenient to your lordship. Also for weapons and the presence of a physician.’

 _The presence of a physician…_

Of course, that must be a necessity of any duel. Sean had simply never contemplated such a thing before. The magnitude of the undertaking was brought home to him in that wholly pragmatic phrase; the realisation that one of them may well be seriously wounded—if not dead— before this same hour tomorrow. Nonetheless, he signified agreement in a curt nod.

‘With your leave, my lord, I shall retain—’ Sir Elijah broke off suddenly, as if he could not even name the precious jewel that had stood true proxy for Sean’s own heart when he offered it. ‘I shall retain the item in question until our meeting,’ he concluded, stooping to retrieve the necklace that had slithered, at some point, unnoticed to the floor.

‘Tomorrow, then!’ Sean turned to leave. Yet before ever the door could close behind him, he was conscious of the figure still standing by the window. Head held high and proud, that profile was now so clearly his Aliena—and the Heart of Ciara on its silvery chain slipped softly, like tears, through her fingers.

_Here Endeth the First Part of our Tale_  
_Being a Portion only of the Life and Times_  
_of Sean Patrick,_  
_Eighth Earl Astin of Carraghlin_  
_and Sixth of Astinley_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	14. PART TWO: In which Pretensions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got across with the weekly posting. Never mind--enjoy!

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Hocparttwobanner.jpg)

Being Principally the Adventures of Sir Elijah Wood;  
to Encompass his Mode of Existence and Familial Connections,  
his Romantic Expectations and the Unexpected Fulfilment thereof;  
also their Sudden Destruction and the Issuing of a Challenge

CHAPTER the FOURTEENTH

_In which Pretensions are Lightly yet Expertly Depressed;_  
_Tidings Come not New to at Least One Auditor,_  
_and Well-aimed yet Misdirected Suspicion Comes to Naught_

The coffee house was abuzz with rumour and conjecture as Sir Elijah Wood minced in splendour through the open doorway, not a mote out of place from his extravagant wig to his elegantly heeled shoes. He might never be held to embody The Man of Reason, but considered as a Work of Art he was truly magnificent.

There was a slight if noticeable break in conversation before the hum resumed—with a sharper note from at least one quarter. A certain petulance was now evinced by a knot of persons who fondly nurtured pretensions to the heights of modality so carelessly there displayed. More than one member of that coterie could be observed to finger his neck-cloth somewhat nervously; to poke in disgruntled fashion at the waistcoat, the fob of clouded agate, the rosettes on his shoes or the purely decorative cane of which—only moments ago—he had been immoderately proud. 

An additional advantage to the wearing of such thick paint, above the absolute anonymity afforded when divested thereof, was the ingrained necessity of permitting the face to register nothing whatsoever, lest cracks appear therein. Sir Elijah's appreciation of his emulators’ discomfiture was therefore entirely internal.

In response to a welcoming gesture from his godfather, the startlingly modish baronet made his way to a quiet nook, set slightly apart from the main thrust of conversation. Sir Anthony was enjoying an impromptu hand of cards with a friend, whilst still managing to contribute sporadically to the discussion at large. The day’s newssheets having been already scanned for their most interesting content, and found regrettably wanting except in the one notable respect now under dissection by the patrons gathered here. 

‘Morning, m’boy!’ Another wave of large, capable fingers summoned a servant to provide refreshment. ‘Do you know, I wonder, of the most astonishing theft which has taken place?’ 

Since his recent retirement from the Foreign Service—relinquishing to younger colleagues the discomfort and sometimes danger this could occasionally provide—Sir Anthony Cadell had very quickly gained the reputation of being the most complete gossip. Of being, moreover, unable ever to resist speculation of any kind, whether financial or verbal, his tendency toward the latter being held by the many to have expanded apace with his waistline. And it was a fact that he now devoted his energies quite zealously to maintenance of the role of scandalmonger so generously offered. 

By the very few, it was known that he yet maintained a finger on the pulse of politicks—that he served his country still. In the years leading up to his retirement his powers of negotiation had, it seemed, reached zenith. He appeared to have developed an uncanny ability to divine the intentions of his opposite number and thus to manipulate them to his own country’s best advantage. He continued here in London—on a regular basis and with uncanny accuracy—to predict the contents of certain Ambassadorial communiqués, almost before the Ambassadors had themselves time to imbibe the matter therein. When questioned by those few as to his sources, he would only tap his nose silently, indicating that he kept his own counsel to best and safest effect.

As an acknowledged gossip, it was thus scarcely to be wondered at that he should seek to inform his godson of so spectacularly daring a theft. ‘The Academy, would you believe?’ His eyebrows rose in silent question.

Sir Elijah had reasons of his own for an absolute belief in the Royal Academy’s loss of several of the most valuable works on display there, though he was not, of course, intending to make them known to the room at large. For Sir Anthony, however, there was a slight inclination of the head—imperceptible to anyone not expecting it—before the shudder that stopped just short of the theatrical. 

‘My _dear_ sir,’ he said then, in a delicately failing voice, ‘you must know how _very_ much I am affected by tales of _violence_ and of _bloodshed_! I give you fair warning that I have _unaccountably_ left home _sans vinaigrette—such_ a pretty enamel and the _grille_ comprises the most _exquisite_ design of flowers!—and I may therefore need to be revived from a positive _faint_ should you insist on regaling me with quite _horrific_ details.’

‘No, no, dear boy, no violence whatever, I promise you. You are perfectly safe to listen!’ Sir Anthony’s smile might seem to the company at large merely indulgent of such timidities, but he was one of the very few in a position to appreciate the vast discrepancy between appearance and reality. Elijah accepted it correctly, therefore, as tribute to his performance.

With a show of considerable relief at the reassurance thus offered, the squeamishly inclined baronet fortified himself for what was to come with a careful sip of the coffee now placed before him.

‘The Grand Exhibition!’ Cadell’s companion was moved to reveal. ‘Most of its finest paintings, gone. Vanished into thin air! Most valuable, too!’ George Harmiston had never been a quick-wit, and the years had served only to erode his apprehension still further—though his reputation as a solid fellow and an unswerving friend was disputed by none.

‘Scoundrels of some discrimination, it seems!’ _Most of? I took four—who else has had their fingers in the dish?_

A rumble of contradictory voices resolved themselves into Sir Anthony’s quiet correction. ‘No, George—four, only four! Though four of the best, mark you! But I very much doubt the discrimination, m’boy. The stuff was probably stolen by numbers. You can’t expect these fellows to have the slightest idea of what it is that they’re taking. Stands to reason, the perpetrators must have been put up to it.’ 

Since no-one else in London—barring Elijah’s personal household—could have any notion of the expertise that dwelt behind that foppish façade, the nature of his jest was apparent to the latter alone.

‘I bow, as ever, to your _superior knowledge_ in such matters, sir,’ Elijah agreed affably, taking a cautious nibble—there were also drawbacks to the liberal application of paint—at one of the feather-light biscuits served with the coffee and a specialty of the house. 

In one respect, his godfather was quite correct. Elijah would never be _instructed_ as to which paintings he should acquire, but he knew already who would be most eager—and least scrupulous—to buy, and the very agency by which a mutually agreeable and securely secret transaction might be arranged; he had in fact chosen them to suit his market, so to speak. 

Of the many treasures gathered there for exhibition, one quite minor work alone had he coveted for himself, so well did a sleeping child resemble the man he had become; but to steal that family heirloom would have been a cause of sorrow to one for whom he could wish naught save happiness.

He had, of course, noticed the loss of one of the gloves he wore to conceal the whiteness of his hands, and knew exactly where it had been dropped; to have returned for it, however, must have strained his resolve to its end, and so he left it there. There could be no means of identifying it after all, for it was custom made and the craftsman who might have claimed it for his work did not reside in England.

Elijah still found it odd—and rather comforting—to be referred to as anyone’s ‘boy’, with no intent other than a lazy affection. Sir Anthony had discovered the family, more than once, in far flung cities, usually when Father’s luck had been at high water so that they resided in one of the better hostelries. And more than once, he had attempted to impress upon Sir Merivale Wood the error of his ways, and to persuade him to retire to his estates in England—such of them as remained. The entail alone ensured their survival as Elijah’s future inheritance, and only the strictest economy, as practised by the steward installed at Sir Anthony’s insistence and expense, retained a value to that inheritance. 

Sir Merivale was perfectly prepared to accept the increased income thus afforded to him, yet stubbornly refused to return, preferring a life of freedom, drunkenness and cards—even at the expense of poverty that verged further toward destitution each time that Fortune deserted him, as she so often did—to one of opprobrium and country seclusion in his native land. 

Had Sir Anthony understood but half the straits to which his godson had been forced to resort, Elijah knew that he would have ignored his friend’s wishes entirely and kidnapped the two children forthwith, returning them to the safety of England under his own wardship and bedamned to the legalities. 

He had not known, Elijah would not have betrayed his father if he could, and they had remained with Sir Merivale until his death. 

Upon that death, guardianship of the pair devolved upon Sir Anthony. Under his aegis, they regained at last the entry into that world to which they were entitled by birth—first in Paris and then, a little polish gained, here in London. He it was who discovered accommodation suitable to somewhat specific requirements, bestirring himself also to sponsor Elijah into his clubs, and to bring him to the notice of those people whom a young man in Society should know. 

More importantly, at Elijah’s earnest request, he had used his influence with Lady Stainborough to inveigle her into bringing out Miss Hannah Wood alongside her own daughter, Catherine. Not that her Ladyship had offered much demur when presented with what amounted to _une carte blanche_ in the matter of complete _trousseaux_ for herself and Miss Kitty for the entire Season. And who could possibly have resisted the opportunity to play hostess to a number of expensively tasteful entertainments designed to bring both damsels to the notice of every eligible bachelor in the _ton_? 

As was her right, Hannah was now attending all the very _best_ parties, assemblies and balls. Elijah was sure that her pretty looks, intelligence and unspoilt manner would find for her the right sort of husband—one who would love her for herself, and keep her safe no matter what may befall her brother. 

It was unfortunate that Lady Stainborough had ‘accidentally’ let slip the fact that Hannah would bring a great deal more than looks and charm to her marriage, but Elijah knew himself to be quite capable of dealing with any man unwise enough to trifle with his sister’s affections solely in order to obtain the portion that would be settled upon her. 

And if the considerable expense of all of this must be defrayed by such losses as the Academy had incurred, then so be it. 

‘Left a card, so I heard.’ Harmiston put in now, frowning at his current hand.

‘A _card_? How very… _correct_ of them.’ Elijah stirred his coffee absently and reached for the latest number of _The Examiner._

‘Yes, indeed. Visiting card, as impudent as you please! Signed _Butterfly_ , or somesuch. In Frog-speak, y'understand—papper-something-or-other. Demmed odd, though—m’cousin wrote me from Paris just last winter. Same sort of thing there, these past few years—daring thefts over and again. Same card left over and over. Thousands— _millions!_ —of _livres_ in jewels and artwork and all that nonsense. Gone, just like that! And then it stopped, just like that.’ 

Harmiston paused, a slow shake of his head indicating an equally slow consideration of the ways of the world—or at least of the criminal classes. ‘In Paris yourself about that time, weren’t you, Wood? Y’must have heard of it. Come to think of it, y’know—’twasn’t long before you returned to England that it stopped,’ he observed, discarding the two of hearts with an unguarded grin that betrayed rather too much of his satisfaction with the hand he held, and demanding its replacement.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Impromptu.jpg)

A look of concern crossed Sir Anthony’s face briefly. ‘What?’ he said, forestalling any reply Elijah might make. He obliged his friend, took a card for himself and adjusted his own hand. ‘Oh, I heard of the exploits of _le Petit Papillon_ in the Low Countries, when I was there several years ago—also in Florence, I think, and maybe in Prague, too. Definitely in Dresden—you were never in Dresden, were you, Elijah? A delightful city, such a pity that you should have missed its glories.’

He reached to the pocket of his waistcoat for his snuff box but Elijah anticipated him, grateful for the attempt to exonerate him amid a plethora of possibility.

‘Permit _me_ , Sir,’ he said, producing an elegant trifle inlaid with a representation of Orpheus’ last despairing glance at Eurydice, in the soft gleam of nacre. He passed it first to Harmiston on his left, as custom demanded. ‘I think you may well be _amused_ by this new sort. The aroma is positively _airy_ —the lightness of vanilla, you see—with a maturer undertone of bergamot for _stability_ , and a mere _soupçon_ of mint to provide a most desirable note of _refreshment_.’ 

He recounted the virtues of his snuff—a truly excellent kind, if slightly out of the common—with the earnest sincerity of one to whom such matters were of infinite importance; and only one as close as a godfather would detect the amusement that lurked beneath the words.

On receiving the box, Sir Anthony examined it with interest before helping himself to a neat pinch. He sniffed warily, and his quickly blanked expression told Elijah all he needed to know of his opinion of the _new sort_ though he rendered thanks in the approved manner. 

‘As to the matter of the Butterfly,’ he said then, ‘I suspect the entire card business to be one of those instances in which one pack of scoundrels emulates another in order to dissipate the assignment of blame.’

The box was returned to Elijah and he applied middle and forefinger in the appropriate manner; few if any of those present would realise that he vastly preferred the elegance of the container to its contents. 

But if George Harmiston, who could barely cope with an offer of snuff without loudly requiring the offices of a large and colourfully spotted handkerchief—Elijah repressed a shudder—if _he_ could make the connection… 

‘Couldn't be one of your servants, I suppose?’ 

…but no, not even he could suspect so exquisitely foppish a vision of complicity in so outrageous an undertaking. And perhaps it might be as well to give serious thought to the despatch of a few of his cards to various cadres of the Brotherhood; together with a request that they be deposited within their jurisdiction in lieu of exceptionally valuable spoils—and most particularly in Prague, Florence and Dresden. To forego their use here—however dangerous it may prove—would be a wrench. And furthermore, somewhat impolite.

‘Sir?’ The word conveyed a world of totally innocent enquiry. ‘My staff can scarcely be held to blame for the _vagaries_ of opportunistic _thieves_! A few are quite _English_ , engaged when we arrived, but those who are _not_ have been with me for _years_. I can vouch for their activities with _absolute_ confidence.’ 

_And without their support, I should not be one half so successful as I am!_[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	15. Which Chronicles the Earliest Formative Influences...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the FIFTEENTH
> 
> _Which Chronicles the Earliest Formative Influences upon_  
>  _a Gifted and Highly Professional Thief_  
> 

Elijah was more than grateful for the generous support he had received throughout his life. He could only regret that so little of it had come directly from his parents. Mama had died following the birth of Hannah. Elijah was then no older than two, and he retained but a fleeting memory of arms holding him gently, a delicate perfume and the distant echo of a soft and loving voice.

Father… It was but truth to admit that Father had slipped steadily from rake to reckless gambler, and inevitably to drunkard at the last.

And yet, each parent had provided a guardian of sorts, without whom the two infants would have been bereft indeed. 

Mama had bequeathed to them Miss Adela Cosgrove, her own former governess who turned companion when Sophia Kirtland married Sir Merivale Wood. With her very last words she had entrusted her children to Adela’s loving care. Perhaps Mama had envisioned that they would need protection from a stepmother who may resent their presence. 

She could not have foreseen that the angry and grieving widower would rapidly earn himself the reputation of a rakehell. Or that soon enough he would be driven from England, having been caught _in flagrante delicto_ with one too many of those high-born ladies who found his melancholy both romantic and a challenge, and who sought to provide him with solace in bodily form. This final time, his birth and breeding—though one of England’s oldest families—proved insufficient to stand against the wrath of a Royal Duke.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=SirMerivaleWood.jpg)

Thus for many years Sir Merivale Wood criss-crossed the Continent, presumably in search of something that he never found, with a pair of children dangling always at his coattails. Elijah could not doubt that he loved them. It would have been very much easier to abandon the squalling brats they must then have been to the care of their few remaining relatives, and yet he had not. Neither, however, was he overtly affectionate—and he had not the smallest idea of how to raise children.

Things would have gone ill for them indeed, if not for Adela and her fierce love for the two waifs left to her care. Nursemaids had come and gone, (some of them, regrettably, due to their master’s attentions), but Adela had been there always. Somehow she contrived to make a home for them with the security of her presence, no matter where they travelled—from fine _hôtels_ to the most wretched of rooming houses when Sir Merivale’s luck inevitably deserted him once again.

Father’s greatest contribution to their wellbeing was Stavros—who, as far as Elijah knew, had no other name. To strangers he was almost frighteningly large, but to the Wood children he was the gentlest of men who cared for them as lovingly as did Adela. 

Somewhere on the eastern fringes of the Grand Tour of his youth, Sir Merivale had acquired this giant of a man and brought him to England as a general factotum within his household. By the time the baronet discovered his removal from England to be rather more exigent than optional, Stavros was the sole manservant left to him. From him Elijah learned of an open and carefree Merivale Wood, who had inspired loyalty beyond reason. He was yet to discover what might lie behind such devoted service to a man whose mien seemed forever laced with melancholy and a suppressed anger, its edge blunted only by the twinned compulsions of drink and of cards. 

Under the care of these disparate guardians, Elijah and Hannah enjoyed a happy, if unorthodox, upbringing. Their education was especially thorough, for there was often a limit to the recreation that could be afforded to them. Miss Cosgrove contrived instead to make their learning into a game. She could not have foreseen that a wide-eyed fascination with the works of art that she so loved to visit—both in public galleries and private collections opened to them through Sir Merivale's connections—would prove to be of such inestimable value to one of her pupils in the years to come. Soon enough her knowledge of what else a young man should know became exhausted, but Stavros was there to teach the further skills a gentleman must acquire. 

He contrived to hire himself out as a fencing master during the morning hours when Sir Merivale would have no need whatever of his services. The pupils whom he taught were the heirs to great families, as yet too young for Academy instruction. That Elijah should be on hand to provide a proper-sized adversary was found to be convenient. But the instruction he received was in this way both more frequent and more dedicated than that of the boys he must face and he quickly surpassed even the oldest of them. 

A similar arrangement as riding tutor made it possible for Elijah to accompany a number of the spoilt aristocratic sons of each new city in which they lived. A man affluent enough to keep his own stable had many a mount to spare, though few a second pony. Often no tutoring was available and the sole access to horses came when Stavros made acquaintance amongst rich men’s grooms, and offered his services in the exercising. In either case, Elijah’s experience tended necessarily to be acquired on horses rather too big and often a little too spirited for a young boy. The alternative, however, was never to ride at all, and from the first Elijah loved to ride; only the largest and most recalcitrant of mounts resisted his mastery.

Between them, Miss Cosgrove and Stavros taught their charges to dance. He was remarkably light on his feet for so large a man, and she more graceful than a lean frame may have given one to suppose. The customary lack of an instrument upon which to accompany their lessons was remedied both by Adela’s melodious voice and Stavros’ rhythmic clap, or a tapping on whatever might produce the most tuneful sound. This fact alone, of his former life, would he admit: that he had once been drummer boy to the very regiment in which he served before taking employment with the young Merivale. 

Elijah’s enquiring mind, and the pleasure in reading Miss Cosgrove taught to him, ensured that the lack of a tutor—not to be thought of when there was barely money enough to feed and clothe a growing boy—was scarcely a lack at all. And he simply _absorbed_ the language of every country they visited—though it was perhaps to be regretted that, since his models were servants quite as often as not, his vocabulary tended to include many of the less _acceptable_ epithets. By the age of eleven, therefore, his experience of life was far wider than that of boys who were twice his age and of his station in life, but who had enjoyed a less diverse—and far more stable—upbringing.

Papa’s small income, drawn principally upon the Cedarwood estates, caught up with their travels at precarious intervals only. And so, also by the age of eleven, Elijah understood all too well what it meant to be adrift in foreign lands on limited funds, with a parent who sought to increase them by means of the dice box or a pack of cards. 

It was thus inevitable that he should come to know the whereabouts of each _prêteur sur gages, each Pfandleiher, prestatore su pegno_ , or _lommerdhouder_ of every town and city in which they stayed. Although Stavros would accompany him on initial visits, they soon discovered that Elijah’s huge eyes and engaging smile were often worth just a _little_ extra on the loan if his large guardian loomed somewhere out of sight. 

Elijah knew also that, if things went on this way, they would soon have little left to pledge other than the clothes they needed to impress upon the local populace that they were indeed _aristos,_ and not penniless play-actors—if _penniless_ they all too often were. And without money—or at least a few of the outward trappings of wealth—the highest and most noble of names was of limited value.

Sir Merivale slid alarmingly quickly from bouts of drink-fuddled melancholia to periods of cheerful optimism, when he was filled with conviction that his luck would turn again. And so it did, surprisingly often; but not so often that Elijah could ever relax with any sense of security. As he grew a little older, funds and sobriety permitting, his father began to take him about a little. It was time, he said, that his son should learn to conduct himself in Society—though there was, in truth, little fault to be found with Elijah’s courtesy, thanks to Adela’s teaching and her own gracious example. 

There were always visits to be paid to the aristocracy of each new city, to whom Sir Merivale presented letters of introduction that remained impressive despite the manner of his parting from England; visits also to young compatriots embarked upon on their Grand Tour, and excursions to sporting or cultural venues where those same bucks were often to be found. 

At first, Elijah gazed in awe at the luxury so commonplace amongst such people, at the satins and brocades so casually worn, at fine lace and precious jewels adorning not ladies alone but also many of the men. He did not covet these small fripperies for himself. He regretted only that Hannah was unlikely ever to be granted such delights to grace her life. It began to seem unjust that they should possess money and belongings far beyond their needs; and especially those with whom Father played—to whom he lost—at cards.

To right that inequality soon became Elijah’s goal. Mingling with a crowd intent upon the races, tagging along behind Father at some great lord’s reception, in the bustling foyer of any theatre or opera house—there were always carelessly rich people and carelessly guarded items. Small, deft hands could be well-nigh imperceptible in action, and a pawnbroker who knew you well did not enquire as to the provenance of the pledges you brought. Still less did he worry when pledges became instead goods for outright sale.

Elijah was most careful in his conversion of the things he stole into coin. Too little and they would be looking for cheaper lodgings yet again; too much, and Father would certainly notice their sudden—comparative—affluence. He would put a stop to it at once, of course, and that could never be permitted to happen until they were safe Home once more. Elijah had always considered England and Cedarwood to be _Home_ , little though he could remember them.

It had long been his dearest wish to return, at last. His memories may be little better than vague shadows, but he knew that there at least they could be safe. He wondered sometimes if Father had ever taken thought to what would happen to his children—to Adela and Stavros, too— were he suddenly to die; how they might possibly get back to England. 

Elijah had thought of it. At first, he had hoped that a compatriot would help them in their return. Sir Anthony Cadell for choice, were he within the reach of a letter; or perhaps they might call upon the aid of the nearest English Ambassador. Later, he determined that his own efforts should make it possible—and on his own terms.

He took a quiet pride in the change his skills brought to their lives. Adela had no longer to placate the owner of the rooms they occupied in the matter of dues that went unpaid until eviction loomed frighteningly close. No longer must she market for bread and cheese and fruit in season when they could not afford to dine properly. 

Soon his excursions were bringing back more than just a few _sous, denari_ or _schillings_ , and it was possible to replace well-worn or outgrown clothing, to buy toys and sweetmeats for Hannah, even an occasional book for himself. The dour and avaricious _concierge_ was so far propitiated as to smile at Miss Cosgrove when she and Hannah passed out into the street for their daily walks.

Adela Cosgrove never asked how their few possessions subtly increased in number instead of dwindling; how he could bring home such bounty without any pledge to offer in return. She only looked hard at him, and when Elijah refused to drop his eyes, turned away, biting her lip. 

Stavros asked. Elijah had not known then why the question darkened Stavros’ face with an anger that remained until when Elijah displayed his cache of items yet to be sold. He could not approve, but neither could he refute Elijah's justification for such thefts.

‘ _Some_ thing better had to be contrived,’ Elijah insisted, ‘than the pledging of what little we possess!’ 

Stavros nodded solemnly. Even such unquestioning and long unremunerated loyalty could not deny what was staring him in the face. 

‘Father seems to believe his luck will forever turn and we never shall be homeless in the street. I cannot. The money from Home is gone almost as soon as it arrives, no matter that Adela begs a greater allowance for our needs.’ Elijah grimaced. ‘He prefers not to acknowledge that we exist on the credit of others—he as much as any.’

It was this wilful blindness to the way they lived that hurt. Sir Merivale dined from home as often as not and could therefore afford a fine disregard for the details of domestic necessity as Elijah could not. It must be admitted that when the dibs were in tune Father was generosity itself—his largesse on a grander and more visible scale than the basic improvements of Elijah’s providing. And yet, as much as he disapproved of borrowing, _he_ must surely do so, somehow, to be able still to continue gaming when luck deserted him once again. 

‘When it comes to food, however, to payment for our lodgings, to _living_ , then _the principle is the thing_ ,’ Elijah quoted bitterly. ‘And so, I must steal or we shall starve. And that will _not_ happen.’ _To Hannah_ , he did not say. He had seen too many beggar girls on the streets of too many cities, thin and dirty and wretched, not to fear she may come to that. 

‘Stavros would do this for you, young master, but he is not made for such things.’ he said, regretfully. ‘No man can fail to see the big fellow who makes off with his purse or his watch. My hands—’ He held them out before him, broad and red and safe.

‘It is true that no-one could ever call you light-fingered!’ Elijah said with a laugh, but he sobered quickly. ‘You are needed here. And should anything—happen to me,’ he paused and swallowed, ‘Hannah and Miss Cosgrove will then have need of your protection as never before.’ 

Stavros crossed himself. ‘The good God keep you from such fate,’ he said, ‘but Stavros shall be here for them always! This, I vow.’ He spat into his palm, and held out his hand to Elijah, who also spat before his small, pale hand was all but engulfed in the shaking.

Stavros and Adela had been there for him always—and later, there was Léon.

~~~~\~~~/~~~~

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=ThisIvow.jpg)

~~~~\~~~/~~~~

Illustrations as ever courtesy of  Hildigard Brown, who also included a selection of portraits from the Wood family collection—thank you, dear!

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=AdelaandElijah.jpg)

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=YoungMasterElijahcopy.jpg)


	16. In Which an Education is Furthered...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER the SIXTEENTH
> 
> _In Which an Education is Furthered in Several Directions_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : If you are disturbed by the thought of young teens discovering their sexuality together, please do not read this chapter

Later, there was Léon, who was page to one of Sir Merivale’s more patrician acquaintances. Léon, who became to Elijah both friend and mentor—and much beyond. 

The boy was less than a year older than Elijah, only a month or two past fourteen; a little taller, a little heavier, and in some ways a good deal more worldly-wise. His mother was a maidservant in the household; of his father no word was ever spoken. But Léon was born with an appreciation of—and a _penchant_ for—everything that was beautiful, elegant, expensive and most assuredly not his. Born also, it seemed, with the skills to acquire such things so innocently that he had never even been suspected, let alone accused, of theft. 

Léon watched, late one evening, as Elijah relieved a drunken and barely conscious sot of his watch, fobs, purse and rings (not without turning him solicitously to his side, so that he might not choke on his own vomit before waking to discover his losses). When Elijah rose, stuffing the spoils into his pockets, Léon stepped out of darkness and into his path. 

He would not at first believe that an _aristo_ could stand in more need than he, though it was true; Léon’s master kept generous, even negligent, household. Léon lacked for nothing and received an education alongside the legitimate heir—a thin and peevish boy of Elijah’s age, whom he had met in circumstances of greater formality than these. It was Léon’s own need to possess that drove him to steal—his determination to have one day far greater status than that of a lowly servant.

The two boys were fascinated, each by the other in equal measure. Elijah by one whose skills were a challenge to him, whose knowledge of his world so far outstripped his own, yet who seemed willing enough to share both. Léon by a true _aristo_ whose fingers were even defter than his own and whose understanding meshed so well with his experience. 

Elijah discovered that Léon too was believed to be sleeping through many of the hours he wandered, and that he made his escape by climbing down from his room tucked high beneath the roof of the ambassadorial palazzo. Nothing would do then, but that he must also learn to make that climb—the scramble from his own window being childishly easy now that he had accomplished it so often. 

The palazzo was ancient and venerable—in places ideal for climbing, having gargoyles and carvings aplenty, with balconies galore; in others almost sheer and practically impossible, needing great flexibility and fine muscle control. In learning, in competition and in sport they swarmed over the face of it; soon, there was barely an inch that had not been climbed by the two together. Elijah was proud that at least in this he was actually more adept than Léon, who surpassed him—at first—in almost everything. But he learned fast, of all that Léon had to teach him. 

Concealed behind a further example of extraneous stonework and slightly beyond Léon’s window, lay the cache of objects that he kept for himself. What he showed then was not a store of items to be sold as was Elijah’s, against the family’s present need. Léon’s was an eclectic hoard of beautiful, decorative, costly pieces—from fans to snuff boxes, quizzing glasses to figurines and many another thing besides—and far too precious to him to sell. From them he would fashion for himself a new life—a greater place in the world that they would secure for the man he would be.

He would do this, he said, through the agency of the Brotherhood of Thieves—a Guild to which even the meanest cut-purse must belong if he desired any lasting success in his vocation. Its links spanned every city of the Continent, stretching even into England, and through Léon, Elijah was inducted into their lower ranks. This was his first essay in necessary disguise, though it consisted of little other than his oldest clothes—patched just a little too neatly, perhaps, but speaking quite clearly of poverty—plus a nicely judged coating of dirt.

Then came the day upon which Elijah vowed he must have more, _far_ more than the small returns from trinkets, purses and curios. What had been necessary, yet still half a game at which he was proud to be proficient, must be henceforth the central purpose to his life. He held fast to a steely determination that could and would lift his family completely from the shadow of penury under which they lived. Petty theft was a ridiculous expenditure of risk and a waste of skill when there were more lucrative sources of the income they needed. And Léon—for now they shared both risk and profit—was more than willing, eyes fixed ever more firmly on the better future owed to him by fate.

Each boy from his different station in life frequented the homes of wealthy men. Each knew how to recognise, avoid and—given night and silence—defeat the security measures pitted against thieves. Elijah’s thorough education in the appreciation of fine art proved exceptionally useful, and Léon’s contacts within the Brotherhood became Elijah’s too, bringing knowledge from inside the very houses in the extent of whose valuables there must shortly be a sad decline. With such a network upon which to rely, Elijah found disposal of the fruits of his labours far easier; these came ever easier too, with Léon’s collaboration. 

He taught Elijah also to manipulate a pack of cards with a touch so light no man could detect the cheat; and in return Elijah showed him the way of self-protection that Stavros insisted on teaching him—neither boxing nor truly wrestling, but something more: a means of using your opponent’s greater size against him. Elijah said it in jest, for he had meant Léon, who was both taller and broader already, faster at running yet a little less agile. It would be good to best Léon in this, if only to begin with. 

Léon’s face had darkened, then. ‘Resistance is not always wise,’ he said, and walked away. He seemed angry and Elijah could not think why. He did not find out for many months.

There were other things, far pleasanter, that he learned from Léon. 

In the long slow hours of noonday heat, under the black shade of a pavilion in a garden where they should not have been, they shared a nuncheon of bread and apples and a small flask of stolen wine. Small enough, but not watered. It went to Elijah’s head and made him light-headed, almost giggly. He sprawled languidly on the cool mosaic of the floor, and pressed down with one cheek, wondering aloud if he would wake to find a pattern of tiny squares etched upon his skin, should he fall asleep there. 

Léon was sitting with his back to the nearer of the marble pillars, and did not reply. When Elijah squinted sideways at him through his hair, still keeping his face pressed firmly down, Léon was watching him in focused silence.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Leon.jpg)

‘What?’ When Léon did not reply, Elijah rolled to his back and sat up, half-alarmed. ‘What is it?’

Léon looked away then, and answered with a question. ‘Elijah, have you ever… been touched?’

‘Of course I have, all the time. You can’t help touching people or being touched by them—in passing if not on purpose!’ Elijah frowned his puzzlement.

‘No. _Touched_.’ He stretched out a single finger to the front of Elijah’s breeches and drew it slowly downward. ‘There.’ 

Elijah gasped. At Léon’s daring—one did not _do_ such things!—and at the shiver that followed in wake of that lightest of caresses. 

‘Do you not touch yourself there?’

Elijah felt suddenly warm all over. When he was small, Adela made it clear that one touched _there_ only when necessary. As he grew older, Stavros had warned him to allow no man to touch, nor any woman either, until it was what Elijah himself truly wanted. But he had said nothing about Elijah touching himself, and he was glad of that. Nothing about the naughty feeling when he held and stroked and rubbed, the feeling that gathered within him, that narrowed to this one place, this one bright _want_ that clenched tighter, faster, keener with every second until he could contain it no longer—so sharply overwhelming, so intense that he seemed suddenly to fly apart.

He nodded, hot embarrassment fading quickly before his need for Léon never to stop. For Léon had drawn closer, and Léon’s fingers were cupped around him, holding and rubbing almost the way Elijah did for himself. He knew now why Léon had asked his question, for to be touched in this way by someone else was far more exciting—and the flying apart happened so quickly he was embarrassed all over again.

But Léon did not mock him for his lack of control. He was biting his lip, his face tense and strained. ‘Please, Elijah,’ he said, ‘touch _me_.’

Elijah reached across and slid his hand into place on Léon’s breeches, surprised at the heft of what he found there. So much more of him to grasp, so much more to rub and squeeze and— _oh!_ Just as fast as that, Léon’s hips were jerking upward and he was coiling forward over Elijah’s hand, breath catching desperately as he sagged against him.

It was the first time of many that they stroked each other to pleasure in this way. Eagerly roving hands dipped beneath clothing soon enough, to set the fine tease of fingers to desperate skin. And as the weeks passed, Léon’s eyes upon him seemed to grow ever more intent. One night he did not come to their meeting place and Elijah went instead to the palazzo, climbing up to find him naked there in the seclusion of his room. 

He lay on his bed in a swath of moonlight, and it was not only the curve of muscle in his shoulders or the breadth of his chest that made Elijah feel inadequate.

‘I thought we could—’ Léon stopped and bit his lip. The warm brown of his eyes was swallowed by darkness so that he seemed almost a stranger. His voice, however, was Léon’s voice, cracking worse than ever into the squeak that always made them laugh—though they were far from laughing now. 

‘Elijah, I need to see—to touch you properly, all over. Please?’

Elijah remembered Stavros’ warning then, but Léon was scarcely a man, and Elijah did want this—he wanted it more than anything. He set fingers to the buttons of his shirt.

‘No, let me!’ Léon got up, and Elijah realised he had waited in hope, resolutely ignoring his own need; leaving to Elijah the choice to go or stay with no coercion, nor any persuasion beyond the silent offer of himself. When he chose to stay, Léon’s relief was evident. He took Elijah’s hand, pulling him gently forward to set a kiss upon his mouth. It was not something they had done before, if Elijah had dreamed of it and wanted to try. It was wonderfully soft and damp, and just a little awkward—but perhaps this too was something that must improve with practice.

Léon stood him in full moonlight then, and slowly, carefully stripped him of his clothes. Elijah dared not move, lest Léon should stop, though he quivered to the deft touch of his hands. His lips were suddenly dry and he licked them hurriedly, aware that he was panting as Léon opened the flaps of his breeches and pushed aside all else that lay between them. Elijah wanted to pull back, ashamed that he was small and—without this marble glow of moon, bright upon his skin—still, shamingly, little-boy pink. Not as he had seen in grown men as they relieved themselves. Not the way Léon was: bigger—much bigger, and dusky dark with a fuzz of black already curling at the base, where on Elijah was yet a vague shadow over pale skin to show where hair would one day lie. 

But Léon said only, ‘Ah!’ as he pulled their bodies together, and Elijah shuddered at the astonishing sensation of skin, warm and smooth and everywhere; of arms around him, hands splayed out upon his shoulders, clasping him tight; of hard need that jostled and slid against his own, to fast and shattering effect.

And here was another way that Léon was nearer to being a man than he, in the mess that spattered suddenly between their bellies. He laughed—not unkindly—at Elijah’s shock. ‘Do not look so worried!’ he said. ‘It is that which makes babies inside a woman. You will do it too, one day soon!’ 

Elijah blinked, thinking what a deal of it must be wasted. There could not be as many babies ever made as there were wonderful feelings to be explored in this way. 

They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, laughing freely now, tickling and arousing each other again and again until at last they slept, twined like the pups of a single litter.

He had not _loved_ Léon. He loved him as a friend, of course, and missed him greatly when Sir Merivale decided it was past time for the family to move on once more. They had, after all, remained in the city far longer than any other place Elijah could remember. His memories of it could not all be pleasant. 

By then, he owed to Léon his gratitude for more than skills at climbing or sleight of hand with cards; for more than his entry into the Brotherhood; beyond even his gentle induction into the joys of the body for neither power nor commerce, only a sharing of pleasure with someone he could trust implicitly. 

The loss of his friend was eased in the flurry of learning each new city, of forming necessary new contacts within the network of thieves—earning respect and acceptance through skills honed already to a level that few others possessed, and yet developing still. He quickly discovered that if working alone was a greater challenge, it was also cause for greater triumph. He doubted he would see Léon ever again—and any exchange of letters would surely be viewed with suspicion—but his sadness had not been heartbreak. 

He was to discover much later that it was as nothing to the wide emptiness that settled within him when he was bereft, by more than the usual careful distance between them, of the one he truly loved.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



End file.
